


Holocron Fragments

by erunamiryene



Series: Codex: Sartoris Legacy [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Sith Shenanigans, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:46:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 62
Words: 36,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4501335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erunamiryene/pseuds/erunamiryene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collected SWTOR ficlets, some of which will deal with KotFE, so be warned for spoilers.</p><p>Chaos & Opportunity and Aberration aren't <i>required</i> reading, but it certainly helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. History: 26BTC (Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fragment of Marr's history. The newly ascended Councilor faces an attack from an opponent he didn't anticipate.

The evening is almost romantic. Snow crunches under their boots. Fat flakes, limned by moonlight, drift toward the ground. His breath is curls of smoke in the chilled night air. She falls behind as he lets his mind wander. It would be a simple thing to remove his mask, lift her straight, silver-blonde hair, and press a kiss to that pulse in her neck, as he’s done so many times before.

The silence, and his reverie, is broken by the hiss of a lightsaber. He can’t make himself reach for his own saber as his footfalls still, and he can’t keep all the sadness out of the single syllable he speaks. “Sya.”

“Darth Marr.”

Not even his name, but his title, received less than a month ago. “Why?”

“If I dispatch you, I can claim your seat. I’m not going to be some no-count lord’s underling forever.” Her voice contains no trace of the affection it held even two hours ago. “I can’t wait. I must strike while you’re still adapting to your combat suit.” A pause. “If it matters … I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.” 

“You’re right.”

“It wouldn’t matter if you were,” he says, his tone finally impassive. His fingers curl around his saber hilt almost of their own accord. He reaches out through the Force, wanting to touch her one last time, waiting for her to make her move.

She leaps, kicking snow out behind her, and he turns, their sabers clashing in an explosion of crimson. They match each other move for move, as intimately familiar on the battlefield as they are in the bedroom. The fight is an elegant, murderous dance, brutal saber blows illustrating the death of a relationship, passion transmuted to savagery.

He overcompensates for the weight of the suit and she boots his weapon out of his hand before tackling him into the snow. Her own saber is at his throat, its downward strike halted only by the hand he has curled around her wrist. The cruelly triumphant smile on her face doesn’t reach her gray eyes. “Stop making this hard on yourself. Surrender.” 

His heart constricts. For the briefest second he considers it, considers just letting her end this, and him, and this feeling bringing bile to the back of his throat. She senses it, and her features twist in a snarl. “This is why I deserve your seat: someone so easily played doesn’t merit a position on the Council. I understand one simple fact, and you do not.“

"And what is that?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Love is a tool, nothing more.”

He can hear the lie, but it no longer matters. In that moment, the simple heat of affection is consumed by the inferno of rage. He will not be a stepping stone, and he will be nobody’s pawn. His free hand slips down to the inconspicuous holster on his thigh, coming up in a sudden blur. The knife is buried to the hilt in her neck, right on that delicate pulse. She gasps in genuine shock, scrabbles at his hand, scarlet spray dark against the pristine snow. Her blue eyes widen. “Ma-”

“I understand what _you_ do not.” He throws her off, then follows her trajectory, a knee pressed to her chest, metal jammed up under her chin. “I am Darth Marr, a Lord of the Sith, and I cannot be killed by some no-count lord’s underling!” A curt gesture, and her head snaps to an unnatural angle. He stands over her as the night falls still once again, hands curled into fists, heedless of the cold seeping through the soles of his boots. 

He leaves her in the snow, not even stopping to pick up her lightsaber.


	2. At the Cantina (Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "jealous". Darth Marr is perturbed by Kryn, not for the first time. Takes place just before the beginning of Chapter 1.

He loathes cantinas and crowds and noise, and would much rather be sitting in his quarters actually _enjoying_ a drink and catching up on his reading. Yet here he is, with a third ale sitting in front of him. 

_Why did I even come down here?_

He knows the answer but won’t admit it, even to himself. If she’s going to go anywhere to celebrate, it’s going to be to the loudest, most raucous cantina on the planet, and she’s hovered at the edge of his thoughts since their meeting this afternoon. For longer than that, if he cares to be brutally honest with himself.

She’d stood before him and the rest of the Council, Thanaton dead at her feet, a Councilor for all of five minutes, and _sassed_ them, amusement curving her mouth. She’d sassed him when he’d grudgingly contacted her about the Makeb situation. She seemed to make a habit out of sassing everyone, and he’d idly wondered how she even made it out of the Academy alive. But he couldn’t deny her unerring ability to achieve results, and he’d been pleased when she’d accepted his offer of an alliance, even though he’d mulled it over for weeks, and she’d accepted with less than two minutes’ deliberation.

Though he shouldn’t have been, he was surprised when she’d turned up on Rishi, hand on her hip as she informed him his fleet was teeming with traitors, bringing his much-anticipated battle with the Republic armada to a halt. And then they’d met this afternoon at that safehouse, and he realized he’d forgotten the strength of her charisma and energy.

He sees her as soon as she saunters in with her crew, shoving two tables together and ordering a round for the cantina before she sits down, but how could he not? She _burns_ in the Force, echoes of the ghosts she’d bound still radiating from within her. He still isn’t sure why she fascinates him so. But here he is, sitting in the unbearable din of the cantina, watching her.

Her laughter carries across the room and she leans against the pirate, arm wrapped around his as she completely surrenders to her mirth. The pirate leans over and whispers in her ear, making her laugh even harder, before he kisses her neck.

Marr’s hand tightens, almost imperceptibly, on his mug. _Maybe it’s time to slow down on the drinks_ , he thinks as his chest tightens, _if I’m jealous of a pirate_.

That burning spark doesn’t subside as the time passes. She loses at dice after the Togruta catches her cheating. She throws an arm around the pirate’s shoulders and points out not a few people in the bar. She cajoles Talos into staying longer and having another drink. She teases the Kaleesh until he actually smiles and relaxes back into his seat. Her manner is easy and relaxed, so unlike most Sith, who are tightly wound and paranoid and would never be seen doing something so gauche as fraternizing with their crew in a waterfront pirate cantina.

She loses at dice to the pirate again, laughing as she protests that _no of course I didn’t lose on purpose just to kiss you_ , and cups his face, pressing her mouth to his, sweeping liquor off her lips with the tip of her tongue afterward. 

Marr bites the inside of his cheek, nearly scowling as unexpected heat blooms low in his stomach. Normally, he ignores this sort of thing. Following an ill-advised fling with a fellow Sith that inevitably ended in betrayal and a fight to the death, her blood cooling on pristine snow, he hasn’t bothered much with carnal pursuits. Such entanglements are a luxury he has no use for, are best left as one-off rare encounters. They get in the way of the mission, distract from the elimination of the Empire’s enemies and the perfection of one’s combat abilities.

All that aside, there can be nothing more than a professional association between them, no matter how the ale is making him notice things best left unnoticed. 

He’s irritated that he wants her. And he’s irritated that she, a lord of the Sith and a Councilor, is spending her time with a pirate, of all people. His jaw tightens as he realizes things are clearly spiraling out of his control, something he cannot allow. 

_This is ridiculous. Beneath me. I’m finishing this ale and leaving._

The pirate leans over, arm around her, whispering in her ear and nodding in Marr’s direction. Nox’s expression sharpens as she looks his way, and then she leans back, thoughtful. The pirate tosses something Marr can’t make out onto the table and then she stands, briefly unsteady on her feet and heads his way.


	3. War Table Shenanigans (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn/Marr, for the prompt "shag me". Takes place between Chapters 1 and 2 of Chaos & Opportunity.

Moonlight bathes the fourth moon of Yavin, insects chirp, grasses and trees rustle in the gentle breeze, and the coalition camp is peaceful … unsurprising, given the late hour. Marr, on his way back to the war table, is nonplussed to find an acolyte waiting for him, fingers laced together, head bowed. Irritation flares and he scowls: the unannounced appearance of an acolyte almost always means more political nonsense to deal with.

“What is it, acolyte?” he snaps. “ _Now_ what problem requires my immediate, undivided attention?”

The acolyte slides her hood back off her head, revealing wavy crimson hair, a simple silken eye covering, and a deeply amused smile. “I’d say your unassuaged stress is a problem requiring undivided attention,” Kryn drawls. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Nox?” He opens his mouth, closes it, finally decides what he really wants to ask. “Why in blazes are you dressed like an acolyte?”

She gives him a slightly pitying look. “Because Darth Nox would draw far more attention from the guards than a lowly acolyte, and my goal this evening is dependent on not drawing attention. Unless, of course,” she grins, “you’re the type that likes putting on a show.”

“What?” He folds his arms. “Nox, just say whatever it is you’re trying to say.”

She sighs. “Taking all the fun out of it. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m saying you need to take off your spiky shoulder things, and your mask, and get yourself some stress relief by shagging me in a thoroughly inappropriate place.” She looks at her chrono. “It’s three in the morning. War table’s deserted and all the good little Jedi are asleep in their tents.” She boosts herself up onto the table and thumbs a switch, deactivating the holographic image of the temple approach, then crooks a finger at him. “Do I need to be any more clear?”

Marr is surprised to find he’s nearly speechless. “Nox, we can’t fuck on the war table.”

“Of course we can.” She shakes her head, looking disappointed. “You’re tall - scrumptiously so, really - and … look, just come here.” She points, then waits until he closes the distance between them. When he stops in front of her, she extends one leg, taking pains to let the robe slide upward far more than it needs to, and wraps her leg around his waist, pulling him flush against her. “Mmm … see? Like that. Except obviously, your armor is in the way right now.”

“I ….” He shakes his head. “This is ridiculous. No.”

Unperturbed, she shrugs, pulling her leg back. “If you insist.” She swings her legs to the side, preparing to slide off the table. “Just trying to boost your morale. After all, you did say on Rishi you were interested in getting together again sometime, and that Jedi sure pushed your buttons today.”

He checks his chrono, then places a hand flat against her chest. “Wait.” A pause, and there's a flash of mischief in his eyes as he slips the mask off. “We have twenty minutes until the guard patrol circles back through here.”

A wide grin splits her face. “Better get some of that armor off, then. Just in case. Wouldn’t want them to recognize you.”

He sets his mask on the far edge of the table and unclasps his shoulder spikes, dropping them by his feet as she feels her way around his greaves. When she gets them unfastened, she gives him a look of faux betrayal. “You wanted it the whole time!” she whispers fiercely. “Far be it from me to complain that you’re already hard, but what was all that _oh no we can’t_ nonsense about?”

“I was propositioned by moonlight by a beautiful Sith! Of course I am!” he retorts. “What did you expect? I’m focused on the mission, not _dead_.”

“Mm-hmm,” she murmurs, wrapping a hand around his shaft and smiling when he bites his lip. “But what if I’d left before you made up your mind?”

“It would have been -” He stops, biting back a groan as she caresses him. “It would have been a very long night.”

“Wouldn’t have even come to find me? Disappointing.” She splays her free hand on his chest. “Damn this armor, I want to touch you.”

He slips his gauntleted hands under her tunic to cup her breasts. “I should thank you for wearing this instead of your armor.”

“Yes, you really - oh!” She leans into him as his thumbs brush across her nipples. “You know, for not having much time you’re sure dallying quite a bit.” Her breath quickens as she looks up at him, gaze fixed on his mouth.

“Have to be sure you’re ready,” he says, hands dropping to ruck her skirt up to her thighs, trailing his fingertips along the delicate skin as he spreads her legs. “Are you?”

Her breath catches in her throat as she braces her hands behind her. “I was ready about five minutes before you showed up,” she replies, sliding to the edge of the table. “I was planning this during this evening’s meeting.”

“You were thinking about this,” he whispers, fingers deftly parting her folds before he eases into her, “when you were supposed to be paying attention to ….” He trails off, eyes fluttering closed as she surrounds him.

She arches her back and rolls her hips against him. “I, ah … I was thinking about you bending me over this table while you -” She gasps, then shivers, as he snaps his hips against her one time. “Mmm, just like that. I was thinking about that while Shan droned on about cooperation and handholding and other things far less interesting than this.”

He grips her ass, pulls her flush against him, his mouth nearly touching hers. “As much as I enjoy hearing you scream - and believe me, I do - you’ll have to be quiet this time, Nox.”

One corner of her mouth quirks upward. “Better kiss me, then.”

His mouth collides with hers, teeth clacking together, and a few minutes later neither of them notice the two soldiers on night patrol, an Imperial sergeant and a Republic corporal, round the corner and abruptly stop.

“Sergeant Androl, is … is that what it looks like?”

Androl nods slowly. “Looks like two Sith having sex on the war table, Corporal Reithman.”

Reithman fidgets, trying to focus anywhere but where his eyes keep trying to focus. “Do, uh … do we tell someone? This isn’t really an issue in the Republic, so I’m not quite sure of the protocol.”

Androl raises an eyebrow. “First, do you want to be the one to go bother Darth Marr at three in the morning to tell him someone is fucking on his war table? And second, do you want to be the one to incur the wrath of the two Sith currently doing said fucking? Because I certainly don’t.”

Reithman shakes his head. “Um ... no. No, not really.”

“Well, then I’d say everything here looks secure, and we should keep patrolling.”

“Roger that.”

\--

Between the arguments, the apparent need for everyone to say something, and the usual glacial pace at which meetings move, Darth Marr is sure Revan will have revived and killed Vitiate before this particular meeting concludes. With herculean effort, he restrains a sigh. “I ask this with no small amount of dread, but is there anything _else_ we need to discuss, undoubtedly in excruciating detail, this morning?”

Darth Nox shakes her head, and watches Theron, Lana, Semiri, and Scourge all do the same.

Satele Shan clears her throat. “Actually, yes, there is”.

Marr’s hand tightens on his caf cup, and Nox is pretty sure that if this meeting doesn’t end soon, that cup is going to be shattered. Or lodged in someone’s skull. She’s kind of hoping for the latter; at least it will shake up the monotony. 

“Are you going to tell us?” His tone is one of a man whose patience has been stretched to the limit.

“Yes.” Satele folds her arms and narrows her eyes. “Last night, our roving watch discovered two Sith apparently copulating on the war table.” There is a brief, shocked silence before she continues. “If you could please advise your people that such actions are considered unacceptable, I would appreciate it.” She can’t help adding one dig. “I would have thought that would have gone without saying, but apparently that is not the case.”

Marr inclines his head. “Of course, Satele. I will personally identify the profligate libertines and … punish them accordingly.”

Everyone turns to look at Nox, who has been overtaken by a sudden coughing fit. She waves them away. “Don’t mind me, caf went down the wrong tube, carry on.”

As everyone turns back to the map, Semiri purses her lips. _It was you, wasn’t it?_

Kryn keeps a straight face. _What? Me? A profligate libertine? Never!_

Semiri doesn’t say anything else, not after she sees the corner of Kryn’s mouth twitch.


	4. Early Morning (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between chapters 6 and 7.

Kryn drifts in the timelessness between dreaming and waking, pressed against the warm expanse of Marr’s chest, its steady rise and fall a rhythm as comforting as her own heartbeat. His fingers twitch against her skin, and he rumbles her name into her hair, his voice fuzzy with sleep.

She breathes his in response as she rolls toward him, needing to kiss him just once more, one more before this night of souls bared and secrets divulged ends and they go back to being nothing more than allies.

He cracks one eye open as she moves, its brilliant green subdued in the dim light, and a hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “C’mere.”

She tilts her head up as he bends his down, their noses pressing together. She giggles and rubs her nose against his before she adjusts, pressing her cheek into his palm as he cups her face with his free hand, and then his mouth is on hers, and it is banked embers, an Alderaanian breeze, the whisper of sand across Korriban.

They drift apart and she snuggles her head into the crook of his neck, sleep reclaiming her as he wraps his arms around her shoulders.


	5. Fortunate Son (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn/Marr, from a "hit random on your iTunes and write a ficlet based on the song you get" prompt. I got "Fortunate Son," which made this take a bit of a different turn than I was expecting. Takes place sometime prior to the trip to Tangrene (Chapter 11).

As Kryn and Marr leave the citadel for the evening, Kryn’s eyes are drawn to a large man standing rigidly near the entryway. When he sees them, he strides toward them, anger clear in every step.

“My lords, I would have a word with you.” He doesn’t bow, doesn’t curtail the rage in his tone, nothing.

Kryn, impressed by his sheer audacity, nods, ignoring the flare of irritation radiating from Marr. “You appear determined to have one, whether or not we acquiesce, so by all means, have your word.”

“My lords, I have long supported the Empire. I come, as most of us do, from a long line of faithful servants.” He pauses. “But when does it end? How many more of the Empire’s sons and daughters must be lost, ground up by the Republic in this pointless war, while you sit here in your ivory tower, holding meetings, doing nothing?” He glares at Marr. “You bank on your reputation as a warfighter, but when was the last time you even left the city, my lord? And you,” he continues, pointing at Kryn, “you claim you’re a hero of the Empire, but all you do is prolong the war! There are no decisive victories. We spin our wheels in the sludge of Hoth all because no one will concede, on either side! Who even wants that frozen rock, anyway?”

He takes a step backward. “If you’re going to kill me, that’s fine. I don’t expect any less from Sith more committed to ideology than to victory.” He folds his arms. “But someone had to tell you. We’re tired of dying, of being sent to certain losses, of seeing family after family visited by another pair of soldiers bearing a folded Imperial flag. If you don’t fix it, the patience the Empire has had with you will run out. And there are a lot more of us than there are of you.”

Kryn’s placid expression hasn’t changed since he started talking. “Now see, until you made threats, we were fine.” Lightning erupts from her fingertips, writhing around him in a deadly embrace, and he collapses to the ground as he grits his teeth. “Given that you chose to threaten nearly a third of the Dark Council just now, I’m going to have to have a few words with you.” She beckons to the guards that have been loitering near the door. “Find our new friend here some … suitable accommodations. I shall be by to speak with him tomorrow morning.”

As the man is hauled away, she turns to look for Marr. He’s looming by the far railing, arms folded, staring out across the city. He doesn’t look over as Kryn joins him. “He isn’t wrong.”

“He isn’t wrong about what?”

“I sit in here in meeting after meeting. Talk to this admiral, argue with that moff, my lord look at these eighty thousand datapads, my lord this needs your signature, on and on and _on_.” He slams a fist on the rail. “I shouldn’t be here! I should be taking worlds back from the Republic and that Force-damned chancellor of theirs!”

“I have repeatedly told you to bring your holocomm and come on missions with me,” Kryn says as she mirrors his posture. “I have repeatedly told you that Bryasere can handle the majority of the tasks, because you wouldn’t tolerate an incapable acolyte, and no one will openly ignore what she says because they all know she reports directly to you.” Her hand darts outward, resting on his forearm for just a moment before she pulls it back. “Nevertheless, you know that what we’re trying to accomplish is more important than his grievance.”

“I _know_.” He’s quiet for a long moment. “But perhaps the next time you ask, I’ll come with you.”


	6. Milquetoast (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn has another ridiculous idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the prompt "milquetoast," which really gave me fits because that word doesn't fit either of these two. xD

Kryn has a bundle in her arms and a very mischievous look on her face when Marr answers the door.

“What are you up to?” He steps back to let her in, eyebrow cocked. “You’re not even trying to hide it this time. What is this?”

His suspicion grows when she giggles, outright _giggles_. “I thought maybe we could spice things up a little in the bedroom,” she says, “so I brought some props.” She fiddles with the bundle for a minute, then tosses a brown mass at him. 

He holds it up. “Kryn. Where in blazes did you get Jedi robes?”

She shakes her head. “Not important.” Grinning, she points at the robe in his hands. “Come on, we can play master and padawan.”

“I’m not the padawan,” he says instantly. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, _I’m_ not the padawan,” she retorts. “I came up with this idea, so I should get to be the master.”

“I haven’t spent forty-one years going to Council meetings to be relegated to padawan in the bedroom,” he shoots back as he puts his arm in a sleeve. “I can barely get my arm in here; I think I have yours.” He hands her the robe, takes the other one out of her hands and puts it on. “I have to be honest, I’m questioning your taste right now.”

“But you look so cute as a Jedi,” she says, trying to keep a straight face. “All right, all right, hang on. I have to get into character.” After she pulls on her robe, she clasps her hands together. Tilting her head up, she strains to look serene, her voice accent-free and breathy. “What is our lesson today, Master?” She cringes internally at how timid she sounds, wondering how Jedi can stand to listen to themselves talk.

“I -” He presses his lips together. “It -” He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tries to contain his laughter, though it’s still pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Today’s lesson is a … practical application test in resisting the temptation of emotion.”

Kryn covers up her chuckle with a cough. “That sounds dangerous, Mas -” She shakes her head, making a face. “I’m sorry, I don’t know if I can do this.”

He clucks his tongue at her. “Not very Jedi-like, and this was _your_ idea. But if you can’t handle it, that’s fine, we can stop.”

Just as he expected, Kryn’s jaw takes on a very familiar stubborn set. “Oh no. We’re doing this.” She takes a deep breath, adds a quaver of uncertainty to what she’s determined is her Padawan Voice. “If you’re sure, Master. I … will follow your lead.”


	7. Canby Berries (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn tries to organize a romantic surprise. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it doesn't work out how she planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fill for a prompt for strawberries; canby berries seemed to be the closest equivalent.

Marr swoops down under the balcony and into the garage, parking his speeder in one of the few remaining empty spaces. He hangs his cloak on the rack near the workbench and opens the inner door. Kryn’s house is devoid of people and noise: Talos, Ashara, Xalek, and Khem Val are all back on Yavin 4, and Andronikos took a trip to Malastare to watch - and bet on - the races. Halfway up the stairs, he hears a crash, and then an impressive multilingual swearing streak, come from the kitchen. He rounds the corner and abruptly stops.

A bowl of gorgeous red canby berries is on the counter. A pot is laying on its side in the center of the floor. Kryn is sitting a short distance away from it, leaning against a cabinet and scowling. There is chocolate splashed everywhere. It’s only through sheer will that he doesn’t laugh out loud, instead easing onto the floor next to her. “I thought we agreed that you weren’t allowed in the kitchen. You promised.”

“That was for your kitchen. I do have to eat when I’m at home.“

“And you decided to have canby berries for dinner?”

“No.” She gives him the kind of look normally reserved for obtuse students. “I was watching a cooking show on the HoloNet, and it looked easy, and the plan was to either have it done before you got here, or finish them with you, and, well.” She flings an arm outward. “It was just dipping kriffing canby berries in chocolate! How did it go this poorly? I can bend the Force to my will and I can’t dip berries in chocolate?”

He tries covering up his chuckle with a cough, though he knows he failed miserably when she glares at him. “You are an utter catastrophe in the kitchen, Kryn.” He sweeps his thumb across her cheek, wiping off the splash of chocolate. “Why didn’t you just wait for me to get here?”

“Because,” she says witheringly, “it was supposed to be a _surprise_.”

“Well, how many did you get done?”

Her bottom lip pokes out as she shifts from anger to petulance. “Two.”

He can’t help it then, can’t stop the full-throated laughter, his shoulders shaking. The more he tries to rein it in, the worse it gets. Soon he’s all but wheezing and she’s wearing that look he had the morning he fell on his ass in the shower. He finally draws a deep breath, managing to wrangle it under control when she starts to get up. He catches her wrist and pulls her back next to him. "Don't go. What happened then?”

“And then I turned to grab another berry, bumped the handle of the pot, and here we are.” She folds her arms. “It’s not funny.”

He shakes his head. "If this had happened to me, you’d still be laughing, and you know it.“ Leaning over, he presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, stands and lifts the plate holding two carefully dipped berries, then sits back down. “Here, one for you and one for me.” Handing her the plate, he picks up a berry. “But you have to eat yours first.”

“It’s melted chocolate and berries; it can’t possibly taste that bad.” She makes a face at him. “Seriously, you’re going to make me go first?”

“Yes.” He holds it out, watching as her lips close around the berry, heat pooling low in his stomach. "Oh, yes."

She picks up the other berry, extends it to him; her gaze doesn’t leave his face as he eats it. “I can, ah, put the others in the fridge.”

He gets to his feet, helps her up. “Or you could bring them. I'm sure we could find something to do with them.”

“Much better idea.” She sweeps the bowl off the counter as he pulls her out of the kitchen. “Let’s go.”


	8. Starfire (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short prompt fill for a more poetic type prompt than I usually fill.

The words glow in her soul.

She can press kisses, burning like starfire on the smoothness at the nape of his neck, on the scars that crisscross his torso, drawing a sibilant sound of pleasure through his teeth. 

She can caress his flesh, airy as smoke in the valley of his spine, in the hollow of his throat, leaving no trace but her scent and a lingering memory. 

She can whisper words in the curve of his ear, flaring vermilion with lust, embers glowing in his mind until his spark matches hers and they are a conflagration.

She is incandescent with what she cannot say.


	9. Culinary Adventures (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An injured Marr is ... mostly grateful for Kryn's assistance. Except when she tries to cook for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will never get tired of making fun of Kryn's astounding lack of ability in the kitchen, ever.
> 
> Based on this prompt:  
> "Imagine Person A has injured their hands so Person B fixes their meals every day."

When Marr injures his hands during training, Kryn stays over to help out. Unfortunately for him, she includes making dinner as part of her duties.

Day one’s meal, if it can be called that, is a charred, blackened mess. All he can do is hope that his kitchen doesn’t look like … whatever that is on the plate. He and Kryn regard each other for a long moment, and then he has to ask.

“You … I … do I have to eat it?”

She folds her arms, scowling. “What if I said yes?”

He looks back at the plate of what might have been food three hours ago, but before he can respond, she sighs. “No, you don’t have to eat it. I called for takeout. I’m going to pick it up right now.”

He manages to hold in his exclamation of relief until after she leaves.

On day two, she comes to see him beforehand. “All right. Obviously, I tried something a little too complicated yesterday. I’m sure I can follow directions. Where are all your recipes?”

“You didn’t use a ….” No, no point in even bringing up yesterday’s disaster, and at least she’s figuring it out. “All right. They’re all in the cabinet above the stove.” He can’t help but give some advice. “Choose something simple. Not too many ingredients. Minimal actual cooking.” She sets off downstairs, clearly determined.

She returns an hour and a half later. With more takeout. When he opens his mouth, she holds up her hand. “Don’t ask. Go ahead and eat while I go clean the kitchen.”

The third day, she doesn’t even bother trying and just brings breakfast from a diner in the market district.

Day four is his last day of convalescence, and she’s doing a poor job of not pouting when she comes up, bowl and saucer in hand. “I had to try for your last day. I was smart and didn’t actually cook anything.” She proffers the bowl.

Hoping he doesn’t look as apprehensive as he feels, he takes it. It contains a salad that at least somewhat resembles a salad, albeit one that’s been hacked at with a machete for about fifteen minutes. Possibly by a bantha. It also contains about a quart of dressing. He coughs to cover his laugh. “Could I get some salad with my bowl of dressing?”

Her brows draw together. “No, because I forgot to go shopping.”

He eyes the saucer still in her hand. “What’s that?”

“My dinner.” She lowers it, revealing some slightly burned toast, laden with butter, cinnamon, and sugar. “This is basically the only thing I can make. We can trade if you like.”

“Absolutely not.” He can pick out pieces of vegetable; at this point he’s feeling badly about not eating anything other than takeout. He casts about for some praise. “You didn’t burn it! And this is my favorite dressing.”

“You might be out,” she mumbles. “Don’t know how that happened.”

He laughs. “There’s a horror movie marathon on the HoloNet; let’s see what’s on.” He slides over. “Plenty of room for both of us. Bring your toast and come over here.”


	10. The Selfie (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No idea how far down the timeline this is, but it definitely happens.

When Marr steps out of the shower, he’s instantly aware that his bedroom is much quieter than it had been when he’d left it, and he pokes his head out of the ‘fresher, looking around. 

Kryn has paused her Holonet show and is sprawled across the bed, flipping through an old collection of holos she’s found. “I didn’t know you had long hair!” she exclaims, clearly offended that he hasn’t shared this information with her before now.

“Long hair? Kryn, that was _years_ ago,” he says, wrapping the towel around his hips and crossing the room. “Those were taken before I even took my seat on the Dark Council.”

“That doesn’t in any way lessen how mouthwatering you look with long hair,” she replies, paging through a few more pictures. ”I mean ….” She trails off, distracted, as one catches her attention. “Oh _my_.”

He sits next to her, leans over to see which one she’s so raptly staring at. It’s a holo he snapped in the mirror, loose trousers slung around his hips, one hand raking through wavy, coal-black hair, insouciant smirk curving one side of his mouth. 

“I ….” He coughs, looking almost abashed. “I forgot I took that one. That was right before my trip to Dromund Fels.”

She opens her mouth to say something, forgets what it was she wanted to say, settles for nodding mutely. After a long moment she snaps the book shut and shakes her head. “I’m putting those away before I can’t form words anymore. Can I borrow this? For reasons?" Before he can answer, she nudges him. "Anyway, so you actually used to smile! You should do that more.”

He makes a face.

“At least for me? Be all serious and commanding in public, of course, because that’s indescribably sexy, but in private I don’t want to spend time with Darth Marr, i want to spend time with Matthius, the swaggering warrior who laughs at jokes and poses for questionable pictures. You know, the guy who gets hammered and tries to ride jungle lizards with me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And what if that person doesn’t exist anymore?”

“You’re telling me that you can’t find jokes funny anymore? Or flex?” She gives him a look of total disdain. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, your jokes are pretty awful,” he says, deadpan. “That’s not my fault.”

“How dare you!” she exclaims in mock indignation, sitting up to slap at his arm. “My jokes are hilarious.”

He stands and crosses the room. “If they were, they’d have made me laugh by now,” he says mildly, pretending he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, as he removes the towel and opens his closet.

She offers yet another silent thank you for the gloriousness that is his ass, even as she can’t resist the challenge. “Very well, _my lord_. It’s on.”

He turns, hands on his hips. “Why is it that every time you call me that that, it sounds so incredibly disrespectful?”

Kryn gives him a very knowing look. " _Every_ time?"

"Fine. Almost every time."

“I’m just talented, I guess,” she grins as she gives him a deliberate once-over. “Why don’t you come over here before you put clothes on?”


	11. Enamour Me (Semiri/Scourge)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "enamour me". Semiri tries to be seductive.

It’s their first night back on Coruscant, and for some reason she’s nervous. Yavin 4, that was the planet, the dark side, she temporarily lost her mind, whatever. On the ship … well. He started it, he showed up first, right? She couldn’t very well tell him to go away after he said all those things to her, in that voice, the voice that reminds her of the winter’s day she’d watched a baker drizzle caramel over the best little cakes at the temple, then hand her one, the caramel warm and sweet and perfect.

But now they’re at home, and … all right, she kissed him as they left the meditation room because she couldn’t _not_ kiss him, not after feeling his presence the whole time they were supposed to be meditating, not after feeling his gaze on her back, not after he grazed his fingertips on the curve of her waist as she brushed past him. Even all of that, though, that isn’t _come to my room_ , is it? That isn’t _I want to see you in my bed, that smile on your face, even as we’re surrounded by the trappings of my Order_ , is it? And those things are harder to say, no matter how much her breath shortens when he’s anywhere near her, no matter how she’s sure he can hear her heart pounding, no matter how much _I love you, I love you, I love you_ begs to be spoken anytime she looks at him.

First things first, she needs something better to wear than these ratty pajama pants and this tunic she picked up at a stall on Coruscant when she was really into Knights of Corellia, because you simply cannot woo a man wearing a shirt with the lyrics to “Love Saber” on it. Opening a bottom drawer, she rifles through the collection of lingerie that Ca’ii has brought her over the years, “just in case you finally loosen up and do something fun,” and pulls out a purple one, but discards it. Discards the blue. Pulls out a black flowing beribboned number that had made her blush when Ca’ii held it up and then thrust it into Semiri’s hands before doubling over with laughter, wheezing about _your face, you should see your face_. Semiri takes a deep breath and shucks her comfortable clothes, then pulls the sheer fabric over her head and adjusts it. She nods as she checks her reflection, grudgingly admitting that she looks really, really good. The gown is high waisted, velvet ribbons falling from the slender bow that runs just under her breasts, and it flows like mist around her when she moves to her doorway.

She pauses, uncertain. If he wanted her, he’d come, right? But he’s already done that. Maybe he’s waiting for _her_ to come this time. The only problem is that she can’t seem to move her feet in the direction of his room. And then she realizes she’s never seen his room, and she wonders what he’s done with it. Has he decorated it at all? Or is that too permanent, too much admission that he’s staying with a bunch of Pubs, so it’s bare and spartan, just a bed and a dresser? 

Curiosity grips her mind, and her feet move, and the next time she stops, she’s in the kitchen. She nibbles on one thumbnail - terrible habit, but she’s never been able to break it - as self-doubt reasserts itself. What if he sends her away? Her eyes light on a bottle of something deep purple that Ca’ii brought the last time she visited. Semiri snatches the bottle and reads the label, realizing in short order that Ca’ii pilfered it from Kryn’s private stocks, and a small smile curves her mouth. She can show up with Imperial booze as an icebreaker, right? And she’ll look like she’s really trying.

Well, unless he hates it. But who hates booze?

Her jaw sets with determination as she pulls out two beautiful cut crystal goblets that have never been used. She has taken on rancors and lived, she is not going to be intimidated by one man, she is going to march down there and drape herself across his doorway, mindblowingly seductive and completely irresistible. 

Or at least, maybe manage a close approximation. 

In what seems like no time at all, she’s in front of his door, each breath not seeming to give her enough oxygen, hands shaking, and she scowls. “Semiri, just knock on the kriffing door.” She reaches out and taps the door, then takes a step back to lean insouciantly against the wall.

Scourge opens the door, clad in a simple pair of black trousers, and for the first time since Semiri’s known him, looks genuinely surprised. “Semiri, I ….” He trails off as he stares at her, that flimsy gown leaving precious little to the imagination and yet at the same time concealing just enough that he can’t take his eyes off of her.

“Jedi, are you … .” He blinks. “Am I hallucinating, or are you standing in front of me, wrapped like the galaxy’s best Life Day present, holding two glasses and a liquor you have to to be a very high ranking Sith to obtain?”

 _Fake it til you make it, girl. Fake it til you make it._ One corner of her mouth tugs up in what she hopes is a coquettish smile as she closes the space between them and gazes up at him. “Do you want me to be?”

He plucks the glasses out of his hand. “I don’t believe that ‘yes’ adequately covers my answer to that.” Stepping back, he bows. “Won’t you come in?”


	12. Evening Song (Semiri/Scourge)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place post- _Aberration_.

By the time Semiri looks up from her study of strategies during the Mandalorian Wars, she’s bleary-eyed and parched. She pushes herself out of her seat with a groan, stretching her arms above her head, grimacing when her chrono tells her it’s after three.

“And I was going to go to bed early, too,” she mutters as she slowly opens her door. “Now I have to creep through the apartment and hope I don’t wake anyone up, and at this point I may as well just stay awake the rest of the night.”

She’s crossing back through the main room from the kitchen, thirst relieved and stack of cookies in hand, when a sound out on the balcony catches her ear. It’s music, filtering in through the open window, and she tiptoes closer to see who’s been hiding their ability to sing.

Scourge stands on the balcony, hands clasped behind his back, profile limned by ambient evening light, as the song - one she’s never heard before, a lament for a lost love - rings out in the mild night air, his voice clear and technically proficient. Semiri can hear the emotions meant to drive the song, can hear how there is emphasis in all the correct places … but even to her untrained ear she can tell it isn’t real, merely a simulacrum of sorrow, a counterfeit falling just short of authenticity. 

Her chest tightens the longer she listens, sure that she’s eavesdropping on an incredibly private moment, but she can’t move, lingering near the open window until the last note fades into the darkness. She takes a quick step backward as she sees him turn toward the door and hurries into her room, heedless of the burning at the corners of her eyes, determined not to upset the delicate equilibrium of their relationship.


	13. Step on a Lego (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marr isn't pleased with Kryn's Life Day decorating. She isn't pleased that he isn't pleased. Words are exchanged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt of the same name

“You appeared to have tripped and spilled your Life Day decorations all over my house, Kryn.” Marr proffers a box. “I boxed them back up for you.”

“You ….” Her brows draw together, and her bottom lip sticks out in a ghost of a pout. “You boxed up my decorations? After I spent a whole day here decorating your house?”

He is unrepentant, and shakes the box at her. It jingles. “I certainly didn’t tell you to spend a day stringing up twinkle lights and various bric a brac and baubles, now did I?”

She sets her hands on her hips, glowering. “You know, I thought it would be fun to decorate and spend the holiday together. We don’t have any Imperial obligations that day, and we’ve been through a lot in the last year, but no, Darth Marr is far too … too ….” She casts about for the word she wants. “Far too _curmudgeonly_ to be interested in such things!” 

Her tone abruptly slides into sweetness and light. “I hope that you finish putting together your pretty little ship model tonight, with all the free time you now have on your hands. I hope that when you’re carrying it to its place on your desk, you drop it. I hope you find every piece.” A meaningful pause fills the air, and her next words are a near growl. “Every piece except _one_. And I hope you step on that one at midnight when you’re on your way to the ‘fresher!” 

She snatches the box out of his hands and storms out the door in high dudgeon, leaving Marr staring open-mouthed after her.


	14. Who Writes Your Plans, the Village Idiot? (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn and Ravage get into a tiff in a Council meeting. Must be a day ending in Y in the Empire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt of the same name

Marr is standing in the center of the room. “Now that we can agree Vitiate is out of the picture, it’s time to re-examine our strategies and our long term plans. Our focus, for the time being, needs to be rebuilding and strengthening the Empire, not taking jabs at the Republic.”

“Don’t presume to tell us how to run our spheres, Darth Marr.” Ravage, predictable as always, is the first to voice disagreement. “I, for one, do not intend -”

“To what, Ravage?” Kryn’s voice is that particular brand of chirpy and snotty that makes Marr’s eye twitch … at least, when it’s directed at him. Watching someone else on the receiving end is surprisingly enjoyable, he's finding as he listens to her continue. “To actually run your sphere at all? To bother pulling your head out of your ass for three seconds? Who writes your plans, anyway, the village idiot?” 

He glares at Kryn. “Listen, you upstart, I write my own!”

“There isn’t a thing in the world that anyone could tell me that would be less surprising,” Kryn says, restraining her laughter with some difficulty. “Thank you for confirming my hypothesis about the village idiot, though.”

“Don’t you have a tomb to excavate?” Ravage flaps a dismissive hand. “Get to it. Some of us have actual work to do.”

“I can go dig _yours_ , if you like. It’s never too soon to do the Empire a favor and die, so we can all get to the business of telling extravagant lies about how great a Sith you were.” She smiles sweetly. “Shall I assist your endeavors to become one with the Force?” A thought occurs to her, and her face lights up. “Oh! And I am a Forcewalker of the highest order; I could bind you to me and we could be together _forever_. Wouldn’t that be simply grand?”

Someone in the room smothers a titter.

Ravage casts about for an adequate way to express his utter displeasure. “Darth Marr, are you going to sit there and let her talk to me like this?”

“I-”

“Marr,” Vowrawn interjects, clearly amused “if you cut short this entertainment, I rescind my offer to join your alliance.”


	15. Persimmon (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn and Marr find a moment of solitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (For the prompt of the same name. Persimmon's meaning is _bury me amid nature's beauty_ )

The night air is crisp and clean, washed in moonlight and insect-song. A waterfall courses over the cliffside and into the pond, fine mist dancing around the rocks. Stars blanket the sky with a million twinkling pinpricks, and the Force twines around the lovers in sleek silken ribbons.

He traverses her skin in the silvered light, as familiar with it as he is his own, and makes her tremble under his ministrations. She surrenders to each touch, each kiss, each murmured word, whispers endearments and expletives in equal measure while she strips away his control.

They collapse as one and for a time there is nothing but the two of them, slack and still and wrapped around each other in the verdant grass.


	16. You're So Small (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn's short. Marr thinks it's funny. Kryn isn't amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (set sometime prior to Ziost)

He’s supposed to be reading through the report in front of him, but he can’t take his eyes off Kryn. (This has been happening more and more lately, and is becoming quite the nuisance.) She’s balanced on her tiptoes, futilely attempting to pull a datapad off a high shelf. Both toes on the ground, then one leg extended, fingers swiping at the offending device to no avail.

“Kryn.”

A growl.

“Why don’t you just use the Force?”

“Because I can reach it,” she mutters between gritted teeth.

It takes every ounce of self-restraint he has to not laugh out loud. “Are you sure?”

“Look, Matthius,” she sneers, “if you’re not going to be helpful, how about you go back to what you’re _supposed_ to be doing?”

He watches her for another full minute, noting how her cropped tunic rides even higher and entertaining a brief fantasy of running his tongue along that hipbone … before going elsewhere, of course.

Finally he stands, crossing to her side and easily plucking the datapad off the shelf. “Was this the one you wanted?”

“Yes,” she grumbles as she snatches it out of his hand.

“You’re so _small_ ,” he chuckles, resisting the urge to pat her on the head. “Sometimes I forget that, given the prodigious power you wield.”

Her expression turns stormy and she tosses the datapad onto the couch. “Just because I’m small doesn’t mean I can’t take you in a fight,” she snaps, lightning snaking around her hands.

“Wait, wait, not in here!” He points down the hallway. “Training room.”

“Very well. You meet me in there when you’re ready to lose.” She pivots and marches down the hallway, nose in the air.

He muffles his laughter, then plucks his lightsaber off his desk as he follows her.


	17. What Am I Holding? (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn loves Life Day!  
> She loves it a lot.  
> So Marr gets to, as well,   
> Whether he wants to or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (for the prompt of the same name)

Marr is barely through his door when Kryn shoves a large box into his hands, her face alight. “Good, you’re back. I dragged all this over here, but I need you to hold the boxes while I put it up.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, mentally shuffling through a list of questions. “Kryn … what am I holding?”

“It’s the - oh! Hang on!” Leaving him still standing inside the door, she hustles across the room and turns on the stereo, filling the room with obnoxiously cheery music. “There we go. Can’t decorate without music!”

He takes a deep breath. Slowly exhales. “Are you telling me you’re decorating for Life Day a full _month_ before the holiday even happens?”

She gives him the kind of disdainful look she normally reserves for Ravage. “Well, when else would you do it? Here, set the box down and go change. Obviously, I’m going to need your help stringing the lights around the windows, and it’s just not going to work if you’re still in your armor.”

He’s halfway up the stairs before he stops. “Wait. Why aren’t you doing this to your own house?”

“I did! Why do you think I wasn’t at the Citadel today? This is what I had left over, and it’s just enough to do yours.” A toothy grin spreads across her face. “I bet I have enough twinkle lights to decorate your shoulder spikes.”

“Kryn, if you lay a finger on my armor, I …”

She raises her eyebrows, trying to look serious and failing. “Yes? You’ll what?”

“I ….” He wags a finger at her. “I’ll make you cook your own dinners from now on.”

She shrugs. “I’m on a first name basis with every takeout joint in this town.”

“Kryn,” he says, a note of pleading in his voice, “please don’t twinkle light my armor.”

She sets a hand on her hip. “Are you going to help me do all this, _without_ complaining?”

A sigh. “Yes.”

“Then I’ll leave your armor alone. Besides,” she says lightly, coming up the stairs behind him, “once we’re done with this we can make some cookies and open that bottle of ice brandy we bought. Now come on, I’ll … help you out of your armor.”


	18. POV: Military Ball (Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The [military ball](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3265439/chapters/7613696) from Marr's perspective.

To any outside observer of the Imperial military ball, Darth Marr could be a particularly menacing statue, seated in his chair at the head table. Other than acknowledging the welcome included in the customary speech, he’s barely moved the entire evening. The head table’s location has given him the opportunity to watch nearly the whole of the ballroom unnoticed, however, and he’s had his eye on Kryn since she strolled in, engrossed in conversation with Talos. He’s been waiting, mulling over a few different ways to pay her back for that utter nonsense in the Citadel a few weeks ago, biding his time until the perfect opportunity arises.

_Tonight?_

He watches an entire table of soldiers turn to gawk at her as she dramatically swings her cape off her shoulders and hands it to the Twi’lek managing the coat check, the jewels on the straps crossing her otherwise bare back twinkling in the light. They hurriedly turn back toward their conversation as she sweeps toward her table, though their eyes follow her after she passes them. 

During a particularly lively conversation at her table, she throws back her head and laughs with abandon, and he notices, not for the first time, her seeming lack of duplicity. The way she behaved on Rishi is just how she behaved on Yavin, and is just how she behaves back here on Dromund Kaas. It’s especially interesting given her training as an inquisitor, and he idly wonders how often she works in that particular capacity.

He’s only half-listening to the two moffs seated on each side of him, when her face lights up as the music starts. He watches her slip easily between groups of people and finally come to a stop at the dance floor, joining the crowd avidly watching that lieutenant … what was his name, Marr knows he’s met him before … Pierce. He was with the Wrath when the Wrath dispatched Baras. They fall into easy conversation after Pierce is through, leaning in to speak quietly and then pulling back, smiling widely.

And then she’s standing in front of him after shooing the moffs away with a single sentence, dropping into one of their vacated chairs, grin on her face as she asks him to dance even though she knows he won’t. He nearly fumbles the conversation when it turns to her dress, distracted by the sudden, vivid mental image of her in his bed, and he’s surprisingly relieved when Pierce shows up again to ask her for a dance and she follows the lieutenant out onto the now-crowded dance floor, though he doesn’t take his eyes off of her until she’s completely out of view.

_Tonight._


	19. AU: Ruler of the Rink (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I love hockey, I am Ruler of the Rink and apparently I don’t know my own strength because I just crushed you into the boards I’m so sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fun little AU prompt.

Kryn scowls, not for the first time, as the pack of animals masquerading as hockey players rampages past her again, yelling jokes and jostling each other and generally being complete assholes. "Ugh, can’t they practice, and I use that word _incredibly_ loosely, after I’m done? How am I supposed to concentrate while they work on their ‘skating circus monkeys’ routine?“ she mutters, tucking an errant strand of red hair back behind her ear.

The team captain, Matthius - a tall, muscular man with wavy ebony hair, sparkling green eyes, sinfully full lips, and a square jawline that is surely a violation of the Geneva Conventions … all of which is ruined by his personality - does a little spin as he skates past Kryn, hands above his head and nose in the air. "What do you think, Andy, am I a cute figure skater?”

“Just need a sparkly little tutu!” Andy laughs.

Kryn entertains a brief fantasy where she sticks out her skate and sends that obnoxious jock ass over teakettle, preferably headfirst into the stands, before she resumes practicing. 

She’s caught up in Ravel’s _Boléro_ when the hockey team starts doing races around the rink, and doesn’t notice Matthius swerving out into her practice area, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to pass Pierce. Gliding back, leg extended in an arabesque, she’s just started her spin when the world goes topsy turvy as Matthius crashes directly into her and they plow into the board, limbs tangled.

“God damn it, you fucking lummox, how fucking hard is it to watch where you’re fucking going?” Kryn groans from underneath Matthius, made even more irate by the uproarious laughter coming from the hockey players on the other side of the rink. She shoves at him. “Are you going to get off of me?”

He looks down at her, face full of concern. “I’m so sorry! Are you all right? I didn’t hit you with my skates, did I?”

“No, you didn’t, and no, I am not all right! If you haven’t noticed, I’m pinned underneath a, uh ….” She looks up at him, her mouth suddenly dry. _Oh my god, I did not know he smelled this good._ “Underneath a ….” _And look at that mouth. Fuck, why is he so good looking?_ She summons all her irritation. “Underneath a goddamn rocks-for-brains jock who can’t watch where the fuck he’s going!” she finishes with extra venom, angry that she’s even considering not being mad at him anymore.

An abashed smile curves his mouth. “I really am sorry. Pierce beats my ass every time we race, never lets me live it down, and all I saw was an opening to get past him, and then your leg was there and I couldn’t stop and … well, here we are.” He tries for charming, hoping to distract himself from noticing how much he likes the feel of her underneath him. _A boner is really going to ruin this apology. Keep it together, man._ “Did I mention it was a very nice leg?” _Fuck. Not helping._

She purses her lips, willing herself to stay angry, sighing when she can’t, not when he’s giving her that face with those sad eyes. “Ugh, stop making that face at me, okay? And obviously, you owe me. You fucked up a perfect camel spin, you know.”

“I didn’t know that’s what it was, but I’ll remember from now on,” he says. “Can I take you to dinner, so that I may in some small way make up for my egregious misconduct?”

“As long as you don’t wear a sparkly tutu,” she replies, winking. “Contrary to what your friend thinks, I don’t think it would be a good look for you at all.”

His laugh, deep and rich, bursts out of him with abandon. “I solemnly swear I will not wear a tutu.” He grins widely, teeth white against his tanned skin, as he clambers to his feet and extends a hand to her. “I’m Matthius, by the way.”

“I know,” she says tartly as she takes it, eyes widening as he swiftly lifts her to her feet. “Could hardly miss it with how loud you guys are.”

He laughs again. “Fair enough.” After a pause, he nudges her. “Now see, this is the part where you tell me your name.”

Her hazel eyes sparkle. “Oh, is it? Is that how this ‘civilized person’ thing works?” She grins. “My name is Kryn.”

“Kryn,” he repeats, as though testing the feel of it in his mouth. “I like it. I’m done with practice at six. Does seven work for you?”

“I suppose I can make room in my schedule tonight,” she muses. “What’s your number? I’ll text you my address.”

After he recites it, her fingers fly over the keys as she dashes off her message. “I’ll see you at seven, Matthius. Don’t be late.” Before he can say anything else, she glides away, leaving him standing open-mouthed near the side of the rink.


	20. Get Out of the Way (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Person A of the OTP is late and literally runs into Person B on their way to work/school/etc. Person A is physically smaller yet manages to bowl B over and send their belongings flying. How does Person B react?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (takes place sometime before Makeb, shortly after Kryn becomes a Councilor)

Kryn is muttering to herself as she storms through the Citadel, angry enough that sparks of lightning flash around her, oblivious to the acolytes practically jumping out of her way. “When I pay out credits to get an artifact, I expect that artifact to be delivered! I don’t expect that I’ll be sitting in a meeting bargaining with a kriffing smuggler for forty minutes! And on top of that, if I’m not in the meeting on time this time, Darth Marr is going to -”

Someone doesn’t get out of her way fast enough, and she runs straight into them, knocking them to the ground and sending their datapad flying. She stumbles, then whips around, glaring. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going? Or do you bungle through _all_ of life like a bantha?”

The hallway has gone extraordinarily silent as acolytes watch the unfolding scene.

Darth Marr climbs to his feet. “Are you in a _hurry_ , Darth Nox?” he asks in a tone that may as well have been frozen in carbonite.

Kryn scowls. “Indeed I am! Wouldn’t want you yelling at me again for not making it to yet another meeting where yet another acolyte is giving yet another report that I don’t care about!” she snaps. “ _Why_ were you on the ground?”

“Because some Sith are incapable of watching where they’re going!” he snaps right back. 

“I assume you mean _you_ ,” she says imperiously, sweeping his datapad off the floor and handing it to him. “I knew exactly where I was going. You should have gotten out of my way.”

“Nox, I swear, if we weren’t already short-handed -”

“And I wasn’t extraordinarily good at my job, and I wasn’t this extraordinarily good looking, and so on and so forth.”

“- if we weren’t already short-handed I would ship you to the worst posting in the entire Empire!” he growls, clenching the datapad in his hand.

She smiles sweetly. “But Darth Marr, I _already_ attend Dark Council meetings. Speaking of which, you better hurry, you wouldn’t want to be late. It just wouldn’t do for our _senior_ member to present such a poor example.” As a singularly infuriating smile turns up the corner of her mouth, she turns on her heel and sweeps off down the hallway.

The datapad explodes in a shower of sparks as he closes his fist around it.


	21. Flirtation (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sith are naturally competitive. Even when it comes to giving flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Takes place sometime prior to [chapter 19](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3265439/chapters/11411776) of [Chaos & Opportunity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3265439))

It starts innocently enough. Saying he’s rusty at anything resembling flirtation or romance is an understatement, if not outright inaccurate given that his last relationship wasn't overly laden with romance to begin with, but he desperately wants to throw off her equilibrium because it always seems to be him that’s one step behind in this … whatever it is between him and Kryn. 

In a spur of the moment decision that he’s rolling his eyes at even as he does it, Marr slips into Kryn's office early one morning and leaves a delicate crystal vase containing a single Malreaux rose on her desk, its petals nearly black even in the overhead light.

She flushes a faint pink when he stops by later that afternoon, overly focused on the datapad she’s reading as they talk ... except when she's stealing glances at the rose, and he leaves quite proud of himself.

He should have known she’d retaliate.

The next week, he comes in to an entire bouquet of everlily on his desk, an eyecatching spray of delicate white almost incongruous in his starkly utilitarian office. Of course she’d choose everlily. Of course she’d remember him saying that he liked her perfume. Bryasere swears she has no idea how they got there, and he wonders - not for the first time - how much his Second has observed and hasn’t mentioned. He can’t concentrate on anything that day, and Kryn’s knowing smirk when they meet in the speeder lot after work makes it clear she knew exactly what effect that damned bouquet would have.

Now it’s become a matter of honor. He’s not losing this one. He makes a call, and waits. A few minutes later, his door opens, revealing Bryasere. “My lord, um … an Andronikos Revel says you asked to see him?”

“I did. Send him in and leave us.”

As the door closes him, Andronikos raises an eyebrow. “Alright, I’ll admit it: I’m dying of curiosity, Marr.” He crosses the office and lounges in one of the empty chairs. "What's going on?"

“I need your help. I need something that Nox,” because even now, discussing this, he’s still in the Citadel and some habits will never die, “can’t beat. I gave her one rose; she gives me a bouquet.”

Andronikos laughs. “Beating your head against the wall, trying to one-up her. She gets a kick out of seeing just how far she can take things, you know. Even moreso when it's you." He falls silent, considering for a long moment. "But … I might have an idea. Let me make some calls.“ He stands, grinning widely. “If this pans out, you better take a holo of her face.”

Three weeks later, a sealed crate is gingerly delivered to Marr's office. Upon opening it, he finds three lacy purple flowers he’s never seen before, the color of the lightning strikes over Dromund Kaas and shot through with white, tied with a narrow ivory ribbon. He picks up the card tucked into the side of the box, mouth opening in astonishment as he reads it.

_Cultivated by AgriCorps member Emidian Clodin. This is the first cutting to have survived outside the Jedi Temple. It is possible that if planted and nurtured with the Force, that they will take root and grow._

Not willing to ask how Andronikos procured Jedi flowers, he reseals the crate and heads for Kryn’s office.

“You know I have contingency plans if you’re still trying to win,” she says, grinning, as he sets the crate on her desk.

He shakes his head. “They won’t matter. Open it.”

She does. Appropriately _ooh_ s over the pretty flowers, then picks up the card, eyebrows shooting toward her hairline as she reads it. “Did you raid the Jedi Temple for flowers _without_ me?”

He’s more smug than he probably has any right to be, considering his effort in the matter was a single holocall. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose my methods. Go ahead and admit that I won.”

“I ….” She makes a face and sighs. “Fine. You win this one,” she grouses, though she can’t hold back her smile for long, reaching out to skim a finger along the edge of one petal. “These are gorgeous, though.”

Three months later they’re still on her desk and a fourth bloom, this one shot through with black, is just opening.


	22. Caretaker (Semiri/Scourge)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semiri is sick. Scourge said he'd take care of her. He might be regretting his hasty decision.

Scourge loves Semiri, has ever since Hoth, even before he could tell that he loved her. She’s intelligent, and funny, and still blushes when he compliments her. He can’t imagine not having her at his side. 

Except maybe right now. Maybe right now he’d be okay if she was … over there. Just until she feels better. Because right now, he kind of wants to pick her up and throw her into one of the ponds outside the research base. 

She has a cold, but to hear her tell it she’s caught the most virulent disease in galactic history, and it is vitally important that she detail every. single. grievance to him. Her head hurts. It’s hot. It’s cold. She has a cough. She needs socks. She needs the socks off. The blanket is too warm. Now the blanket is on the floor and she can't reach it and she's cold. She’s been sneezing a lot. The bed is uncomfortable. Her soup is too hot. Now it’s too cold. 

It’s like being in the galaxy’s most irritating production of Garana and the Three Tuk’ata.

She heaves another phlegmy sigh, then has to wait for the coughing fit to pass. “This is the worst thing in the whole galaxy, Scourge. I can’t breathe, food doesn’t taste right, I can’t even sleep.” She sneezes, scattering tissues across the bed. “Can you get me another cup of tea?”

He points at the end table, which currently holds a stack of books (ten, to be precise, all of which she asked for and then didn't even look at), two boxes of tissues, and a cup of tea, untouched. “You have one right there, love.”

She pouts. The Hero of Tython folds her arms, slumps her shoulders, and _pouts_ , gathering her blanket around her. “It got cold.”

He knows he shouldn’t tell her that it wouldn’t be cold if she hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes whining. She’s sick, and he said he’d take care of her, and he’s going to no matter how sorely she tests his patience. “If I bring you another cup, will you drink it this time?”

She gives him the most pitiable _yes_ he’s ever heard, and he can’t help himself. He leans over, kisses her too-warm forehead, and nods. “All right. I’ll be right back.” He returns in short order with a fresh cup of tea. “Here.” 

Yawning widely, she waves at the end table. “Just put it there.” Her lower lip creeps out - again - as she looks up at him. “Will you come sit with me?” She holds out her arms, and the overall picture is very pretty … until she sneezes so hard that she nearly knees herself in the face. “ _Pleaaaaaaase_? I’m sick.”

Almost hoping he gets sick so he can repay her for all of this, he plucks his book off the desk and settles onto the bed. “Come here, plaguebearer.” She curls up against him and is promptly snoring.

She never does drink her tea.


	23. The Witching Soul of Music (Semiri/Scourge)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scourge asks Semiri for a dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (for the prompt "oats")

Semiri has grown increasingly distant from the Jedi Order and the Republic since learning of Chancellor Saresh’s blatant misuse of her powers, and hasn’t left Yavin Four since she and Scourge returned from Ziost a month ago, choosing instead to receive reports and communiques from her crew and her sisters. 

She’s been melancholy and withdrawn, and one afternoon, Scourge finds her in their room, curled up on the bed reading. “Jedi. I have a surprise for you.” He beckons at her. “Come on. You’ve cooped yourself up in here quite long enough.”

She rolls her eyes, but slides off the bed and takes his hand. “Very well. Where are we going?”

He leads her out of the building and across the wide stone bridge, coming to a stop near the gazebo that Kryn had had built some time back, lamenting about “all this open space and no place to relax! It’s intolerable!” He touches a button on a small portable music player, clearly pleased with himself. “I ordered a copy of the music from the Gala of the Stars this year, and it arrived yesterday.”

“Mm-hmm.” She folds her arms, noting that he’s dressed for sparring but hasn’t brought any of their weapons with him. “And we’re listening to it out here because …?”

Scourge gestures, and the furniture slides easily to the outer edges of the gazebo, leaving a wide open circle. “Because,” and to Semiri’s visible shock he bows and holds out his hand, “instead of sparring today, I thought I’d ask you for a dance.”

“I … you ….” She blinks at him, stupefied. “You what?” 

He’s still bowing, though he gives her an arch look. “This is the part where you take my hand and say _I’d love to_ , Jedi. Don’t they teach you any manners on Tython?” 

“Of course,” she retorts. “They just don’t teach us that you Sith have any.”

He wiggles his extended hand at her. “Still waiting.”

She can’t keep the serious look on her face, and grins as she takes his hand. “I don’t know much about dancing. It wasn’t very high on the list of things to teach us at the temple.”

“You think I learned at the Academy?” he laughs. “Don’t worry about it.” He slides one hand around her waist, resting it on the small of her back, then pulls her closer. He resists kissing her only through force of will. “Put your hand on my shoulder.” 

She does, her skin warm on his. It calls to mind other times she’s rested her hands there, and as a shiver races down his spine he considers the possibility that in this case, eschewing a shirt was not his best idea. “Very good. Now, all you need to do is follow my lead and move with the music. Let the Force guide your steps, just like we do in battle. It’s easier than swordplay, though.” He smiles. “I promise.”

Semiri looks up at him, finding herself short of breath. “If you say so,” she whispers. “What next?”


	24. Never in a Million Years (Semiri/Scourge)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scourge is concerned Semiri is letting her life pass her by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt of the same name.

Everything hurts, even beyond the constant song of pain Scourge has grown used to over three centuries. He’s sore, and tired, and just wants to sleep. Worse than this, though, is the worry on Semiri’s face as she helps him toward their room. She’s there day in and day out, consternation creasing her brow, muttering more and more about talking to Kryn to stop all this, that it isn’t worth it.

She shouldn’t be sitting in seclusion on Yavin Four. Semiri wasn’t made for seclusion. She was made to traverse the stars, to stretch her wings beyond the strictures of the Order, to be free like she never has been, not sitting in a lab taking care of him like he’s an invalid. 

He’s never been so tempted to be selfish, to not even bring it up. He doesn’t want her to go. The mere idea of her leaving makes his chest constrict.

But he loves her.

“Semiri.”

She’s leaned up against him, nearly dozing after being awake half the night. Hair has escaped her careful braid, her tunic and pants are rumpled, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Her shuffling steps cease and she looks up at him. “Hmm?”

He takes her hand, laces his fingers with hers. “You ….” He takes a deep breath, then presses onward. “You don’t have to stay here. I’m sure there’s more you want to do than sit on this moon and watch scientists conduct tests on me.”

Hurt is plain on her face and liquid in her eyes, it sits heavy on her heart, and he can already tell she’s trying to force her emotions into anger to mask it. “Are you telling me to _leave_?” 

As if such a thing was possible. “No. I’m saying that if you want to go, you should. We don’t even know if your sister is going to figure out what this ritual was.” He rubs his thumb across the back of her hand, the words slow and hesitant. “I just don’t want you to feel that you’ve wasted your life languishing here.”

Her hands are indescribably gentle when she cups his face, pulling him close enough to brush her lips across his. “I’d never feel that way, never in a million years. It was my choice to come here, it was my choice to stay here, and if here is the only place we have together, then Yavin is enough for me. I wouldn’t trade this for an eternity among the stars, if that eternity was without you.” 

All he can do is stare at her, speechless.

A smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. “Did I finally do to you what you always do to me?” When he simply nods, the smile increases. “Good.” She loops her arm through his. “Come on. Let’s go get some sleep.”


	25. A Kiss at Sunset (Semiri/Scourge)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semiri & Scourge share a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt of the same name

The sky is awash in reds and purple and blues, and he has her hand lifted toward his mouth as they sit on a bench in the gazebo. Scourge’s hand is warmer than hers, Semiri absently notes as she watches him, its crimson hue a dramatic contrast to her own pale skin even in the dimness of the setting sun.

She can hardly remember her name when he does things like this.

She suspects that’s a good part of why he does it.

“Are you already blushing? I haven’t even kissed you yet.” Laughter is a rippling undercurrent in his voice, his red eyes focused on her blue. “I thought you Jedi were supposed to have a thick skin.”

“I, ah ….” She stops as he pulls her hand closer, ever closer. “I’m hardly a Jedi now and you know it,” she finishes in a strangled whisper.

Her hand is close enough now that his breath puffs warm on her wrist. “Enough of one that a flush still steals across your cheeks whenever I find myself moved to an amorous demonstration.”

She wants to retort, wants to defend herself, but now his head is bowed and his mouth is pressed to her wrist, familiar and sensual and warm, so warm, sending a river of fire through her veins, and all she manages is his name, barely spoken, an exhalation on the deepening evening air.

Another kiss just above the first, then another and another, trailing blazing sunspots along the slender length of her arm. When he reaches her shoulder she’s sure she’s made of flame, a conflagration of desire. 

His mouth again, teeth, in a thrill of pleasure and pain too closely intertwined to be separable, and a wanton wordless murmur in that voice she’s never been able to resist. Each one - shoulder, collarbone, throat - draws forth a gasp, and when his lips alight on hers she is nothing but liquid smoke in his arms.


	26. Tears (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn encounters a situation she can't sass her way out of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "Reacting to the other one crying about something"

“Matthius?” 

Kryn’s checked the bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room. If he’s not in the training room, he left and didn’t bother to tell her. She rounds the corner into the training room and stops short, her sarcastic comment dying in her mouth.

Marr is standing in the center of the room, strands of hair stuck to his temples, sheen of sweat gleaming in the overhead lights. His lightsaber is loosely gripped in his right hand, remnants of training droids scattered around him. His head is tilted back, his eyes are closed, and just as Kryn opens her mouth to make a comment about his shirtless, sweaty, and breathless state, a single tear rolls down his face.

Kryn freezes, utterly unsure what to do. When she finally speaks, she’s uncharacteristically hesitant. If someone had asked her, she’d have instantly said the man didn’t know how to cry. Does she give him a hug? Pat his back and say _there, there_?

"… Matthius?”

He doesn’t move.

Maybe she can cajole him out of it. She strolls across the room and brushes her fingers along his forearm. “I know you haven’t gotten my shirt off today, but it’s nothing to cry about.” When still doesn’t react, she raises one eyebrow. “Do you miss Darth Ravage? I can’t say I agree, but I suppose he might not have been all bad.”

Nothing.

“I’m just going to guess until you tell me.” She considers. “Swept up by emotion thinking about the color and wonder I’ve brought to your life? Just realized how much you hate meetings? Feel you really missed your calling to be a Jedi? Remembering how cute your ass is in those smashball pictures from the Academy? Concerned that we’ll never have a hugely ornate, elegant wedding?”

This time, he snorts, looking down at her. “A heavy piece of training droid landed on my toe, Kryn. It made my eye water. Honestly, you have the galaxy’s most overactive imagination.”

She looks down. There’s a droid torso near his bare foot, and his large toe is indeed red and swollen. “Well, why in blazes are you fighting barefoot? And why didn’t you say anything?”

“After your first ridiculous question, I had to see how far you were going to take it.” He raises an eyebrow. “Are _you_ concerned we’ll never have a hugely ornate, elegant wedding?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She grins widely. “You know when I tell Ca’ii about this, I found you on your knees in the training room, tears flowing freely from your bright green eyes, moved to tears by how lucky you are to have me.”

“I’ve never been less surprised in my life.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders and stoops to kiss the top of her head. “Do let me know what she says.”


	27. Braids (Semiri/Scourge)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semiri learns a little more about Scourge's history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "playing with the other's hair"

Semiri is clutching her caf cup, watching the sun rise through the skylight in their quarters as she unsuccessfully stifles a yawn. Every time Scourge does anything with her hair it nearly lulls her to sleep, and this morning is no exception. “You simply must tell me where you learned to do hair. Elective class at the Academy?”

He can’t suppress a chuckle as he weaves another braid into her hair, the straight black strands flowing like water in his hands. “Hardly. My sister was two years older than me and used to pester me to do her hair. She was never any good at doing it, but our mother said she could only keep it long if it was neat and presentable and ‘not an embarrassment when we have guests’. So I learned a few simple braids and taught them to her, but she always preferred me doing it.” He wraps the two braids around each other at the nape of Semiri’s neck and pins them into a neat chignon. “I’d forgotten how relaxing it is to do this.” He leans forward and presses a kiss between her shoulder blades. “Done.”

“Mmm.” She leans back against him, then plucks his caf cup off the end table and hands it to him. “I think we have enough time to relax for a few minutes, yes?”

“Absolutely.”


	28. Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn brings up a surprising subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "Talking about having kids"

The lights of Kaas City stretch out in the darkness below Marr’s tall bedroom windows, glittering like starblazes scattered on violet-black shimmersilk, the continual rain a soothing patter against the transparisteel. Kryn is curled up in the crook of Marr’s elbow, drawing abstract designs along the arm wrapped around her, lost in thought.

“Have you considered our legacy, Matthius?”

“Hmm?” His query is barely even a syllable, and he doesn’t look over from his book, a new study of Republic naval tactics.

“I mean, we’re not going to live forever. Are we just turning all of this - your books and writing, my studies, your weapons, my beautifully decorated house - over to the Empire?”

“And what else would would we do with it?”

“Well … we could always have a baby.”

His attention has yet to waver. “If I remember my reading correctly, a Miraluka and a ….” The sentence trails into nothingness before he can finish it, and he looks down at the top of her head, dropping the book to the bed. “I’m sorry, did you just suggest we have a _baby_?”

Kryn turns over, propping her elbows on his chest and resting her chin in her hands. “Well, I’m just saying … we … we could ….” 

Her lip quivers.

Marr’s eyes narrow to green slits. “Don’t lose your bearing, Kryn. You can hold it. Don’t laugh and give away your little scheme to give me a heart attack.”

“ _Schutta_ ,” she mutters before exploding into laughter, slumping against him until her mirth has run its course. “I was fine until you told me not to laugh!” She gives him a knowing look. “But your heart was really racing there for a minute. I almost had you.” Leaning forward, she trails kisses from his chest to his jaw. “I guess I’ll just have to devise a way to make us immortal, then.”

“That’s probably a better idea than us having children, honestly. The idea of mini-yous running around ….” His shoulders shake in an exaggerated shudder. “I don’t know that my constitution could handle it.”

Kryn slaps his arm. “That’s uncalled for. They could be mini- _you_ s, you never know.”

He picks up his book. “But you already have me to get things off tall shelves. I don’t think you need a baby to do it, too.”

The expression on her face makes it worth it when she zaps him hard enough that his fingers tingle for an hour.


	29. The Downside of Force Bonds (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Force bond can be a very useful thing, unless the person you're bonded to has a tendency to let their mind wander during meetings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a prompt, "and then there's tongue"

Economics meetings are not erotic.

This is a given, a constant in the ever-changing galaxy. 

They’re rarely even _interesting_ , truth be told, but normally, forty years of service on the Council has a way of schooling one into paying attention to even the most stultifyingly boring subjects, even when they drag on for half the afternoon.

Despite these two ironclad facts, Marr finds himself floundering through a veritable sea of lust. His heart is racing, his breath is short, and every adjustment drags armorweave across his cock.

This is ridiculous. He isn’t an acolyte of fifteen, and he’s not prone to flights of imagination, so what could be ….

His train of thought slows. 

He delicately reaches through the Force toward Kryn, who by all appearances is lounging in her chair taking notes. Except her outward appearance certainly doesn’t match her thoughts, which are lingering on subjects most assuredly not economic. Her pulse is racing, just as his is, and her emotional state is bleeding over into his, leaving him overheated and in a considerable amount of physical distress.

They’re going to discuss her lack of focus tonight when they get home.

Eventually.

*

The door has barely closed behind them when his fingers curl around her bicep, pulling her to a stop. Before she can speak he’s tossed his mask in the general direction of the couch and bent to kiss her, hands raking into her hair before he sets to removing her armor.

She takes a deep breath when they finally pull apart. “What are -”

“Later.” His mouth claims her again as he wraps an arm around her and lifts her up; she fumbles first at his belt, then his pauldrons, and they leave a trail of discarded armor from the front door up the stairs. By the time he tosses her onto their bed the only thing he’s wearing above the waist is his fitted armorweave tunic, which he swiftly divests himself of, sending it sailing across the room.

Her skirt is next, following the same trajectory. “You,” he growls as he yanks her to the end of the bed, “need to learn to pay attention in meetings.”

She’s going to answer, but she’s distracted by the warm, wet kisses he’s trailing along her right leg. It isn’t until he turns his attention to the other that she remembers how to speak. “Explain?”

He doesn’t, not until after he’s teased an orgasm from her, sternly watching her as she trembles, sheets still trapped in her white-knuckled clutches. “You forget our bond, I think, when you spend the whole of our last meeting entertaining yourself with increasingly detailed fantasies.”

“Oh!” She bites her lip, trying to stifle the laughter threatening to burst out of her. “So you were -”

He bends his head to her again, plying still-sensitive flesh until she arches her back and sends a cry winging toward the ceiling. “It was a four hour meeting, Kryn. Four hours of this torment.”

“I, ah, don’t know that I can handle four hours of _this_ ,” she gasps, and she can’t quite keep the mischief out of her voice, “though I do dearly love a challenge.”

The third time, her shout is hoarse, frayed at the edges, her nails scoring angry red lines along his back. Flushed and panting, she draws on the Force and shoves him backward. “Very well, but if you don’t get off your knees and fuck me for the fourth, the next four meetings are going to be worse as we see just how well I can focus when I put my mind to it.”

They discard the rest of his armor in record time, and the large framed landscape of the Kaas coastline shakes as they collide with the wall.

“One thing to do it to me on purpose,” he groans against her throat, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other teasing her nipple until she moans. “ _That_ I expect. Another thing entirely to do it out of negligence.”

“ _You_ said,” she murmurs, the words slipped between each thrust of his hips, “that the bond was an asset, remember?”

“Not when you have the attention span of an Alderaanian hummingbird and a filthy imagination.”

She hisses a breath between her teeth when he captures the delicate skin at the curve of her neck between his teeth, actively fighting to remain in the conversation. “Admit it, you love my filthy imagination.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” He knows it’s as good as an outright admission, and then his mouth finds hers again and neither of them notice when the painting crashes to the bedroom floor.


	30. Caf Stand (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The barista at the Sanctum notices some interesting goings-on.

Barash can always tell when a Council member is somewhere in line at his caf stand in the lobby of the Sanctum. Conversations grow faint or die out altogether, everyone seems to stand up straighter, and they’re all in a hurry to get their caf and be on their way. 

It’s even worse when it’s Darth Marr, who always exudes faint disapproval, standing with folded arms until Barash pours his caf (reserve, black, with nothing to “muddle” the flavor) and hands it to him. 

The two exceptions to this, thus far - he hasn’t met the new Councilors yet, except for Darth Atroxa, and she takes her caf the same as Marr, with just as much nervewracking intensity - are Darth Vowrawn (“surprise me, something with caramel”) and Darth Nox (cinnamon latte, two extra shots, don’t forget the chocolate), both of whom are naturally garrulous and outgoing, chitchatting with him about how his day is going and if he’s heard any interesting gossip lately.

Of course, when Barash does have interesting gossip, he sure can’t share it.

His line’s grown quiet, and Barash can see Darth Marr towering over everyone else, even five people back, and Barash has a fresh pot of Kaas Reserve ready when Marr arrives at the head of the line. He’s always prided himself on knowing his regulars’ orders.

“Large reserve, and a large cinnamon latte with two extra shots.”

Barash wouldn’t have lasted a week in the Sanctum if he’d ever let stray reactions flicker across his features, so he remains outwardly stoic when Marr orders not only his drink, but Darth Nox’s. In fact, he’s almost opened his mouth to mention the extra chocolate when his brain kicks in and helpfully points out that letting on that he knows what Marr is doing is a Very Bad Idea. 

“Yes, my lord.” 

He makes the two coffees without further conversation and writes it off as a one-off thing. Maybe they had a meeting together or something.

That theory deflates like an old party balloon when Marr ordering the same two coffees becomes the norm. And when Nox shows up and orders hers … and a large reserve, “but make sure you don’t hide all that bitter caf taste, Barash,” she says, making a face.

There aren’t enough credits in the galaxy to make Barash ask Darth Marr _anything_ , and he won’t ask Darth Nox either, no matter how personable, cute, and flirty she is. She’s still a Councilor and getting involved in their business without being invited is the fastest way to find yourself tossed off the edge of the speeder platform. Or disappeared. 

But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t absolutely _burning_ with curiosity.


	31. Daylily (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daylily- coquetry (An affectation of amorous tenderness, especially of a woman directed towards a man)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after chapter 37 of Chaos & Opportunity

Kryn looks up as her office door opens, one eyebrow arching toward her hairline as Marr beckons Vowrawn toward her desk. She laces her fingers together and watches them approach.

“Gentlemen. Is there something I can do for you?”

Marr stops at the corner of her desk. “Go ahead, Vowrawn. Ask.” 

“You’re an awfully poor loser, my friend,” Vowrawn says, grinning. “But very well. Darth Nox, I was in discussion with Darth Marr earlier, and I had a query that he insists only you can answer.”

Kryn, thoroughly mystified at this point, has to resist looking at Marr. “All right, Darth Vowrawn. What do you need to know?”

“Given the relative differences in your height, I was merely curious if you have to employ any sort of apparatus when you’re moved to a display of simple affection?”

Kryn taps her finger against her lips as the silence spins out. When she speaks, her tone is quite chilly. “Vowrawn, are you asking me if I have to stand on something when I want to kiss him?”

“He is, because I am, and I quote, three meters taller than you,” Marr adds.

The silence has a distinctly heavy quality to it this time. Finally, she pushes her chair back and circles the desk, resting her hand on Marr’s forearm as she turns to regard Vowrawn. “To answer your question, no, I do not need to stand on something. I simply bend him to my will.” 

Her head tilts as she looks up at Marr. “You thought about this all the way through your meeting and then hauled your longtime friend down to my office just to call me short, didn’t you?” Her voice is deceptively light, almost flirtatious. 

“He’s the one that called you short, not me. I simply told him that if he wanted the answer to his question, he’d have to ask you.”

“Mmhmm.” Her voice still hasn’t changed. “And you’re getting no pleasure whatsoever from this discussion of my stature?”

This time Marr wisely doesn’t answer.

She reaches up and pats his chestplate, an inscrutable smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll see you tonight, yes?”

“Of course.”

After she sees them out, Vowrawn looks from the closed door to Marr. “Why does it feel like we’re both in trouble?”


	32. Undercover Boss (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marr overhears a very interesting conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> total, absolute crack!fic.

It’s a singularly strange experience, striding into the Sanctum with half his face uncovered, but he and Kryn have a dinner reservation and she’s working late, so now Darth Aphotic is meeting her in her office.

He’s almost past the caf stand when he notices the barista and Bryasere deep in conversation and finds his curiosity piqued. He falls into line behind the other Sith waiting for her drink and tries to unobtrusively eavesdrop.

“I’m telling you, Bryasere, there’s something going on. Did you know they’re ordering each other’s drinks now?”

Bryasere’s eyes widen. “ _Are_ they? I didn’t know that. I thought they were just arriving around the same time.”

“Mmhmm. He even remembers the chocolate for hers now.”

Bryasere can’t quite suppress a smile. “All those Nox/Ravage writers are going to be sorely disappointed, you know, if that turns out to be true. As I recall, you recommended a few of those fics to me, didn’t you?”

“A couple.” Barash hands over the Sith woman’s drink and bids her good day before turning to Marr. “What can I get for you, my lord?”

Marr studies the menu for a long moment, orders something he knows he’s not going to drink, and steps aside to wait.

“Speaking of writing,” Bryasere says, “have you started that story I recommended?”

“The one that’s basically _Varius and Adriana_ but with Nox and Marr? Not yet. It’s already got twenty two chapters. I think I’m going to start it this weekend.” Barash considers as he heats milk. “Isn’t that the one that says they’ve been secretly married since before she left the Academy?”

“It is, and I know it’s total nonsense, but it’s so romantic. Better than some of the ones by some newer people,” Bryasere scoffs, “who have him being some culinarian who loves to garden. I mean, honestly, the man is a preeminent warrior, I think he probably has better hobbies than that.”

Barash nods as he puts the finishing touches on Marr’s drink. “I mean, obviously, all our observations combined seem to point to Nox/Marr, but I’m still holding out hope for Nox and Vowrawn. They’re hilarious.” He hands the drink over with a cheery smile. “Here you go, my lord. Have a good afternoon.”

Marr takes it, nods, and walks away, trying to decide if the look on Kryn's face when he mentions that apparently some people think she and Ravage would make a good couple would be worth her towering rage for the rest of the evening.


	33. AU: Mourning Process (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angsty ficlet for the prompt "mourning process"

It’s the damndest thing, the way grief works.

At first it’s so large that you can’t even see it. All you know is that your home is wrong, the bed you sleep in is wrong, everything is still the same and yet _wrong_ , wrong somehow in a way you can’t quite focus on, in a way that makes you sleepwalk through the days with only a passing marking of the time.

Just when you’ve accepted your days are going to blur together in numb grayness, it coalesces into a lance of pain that hurts so much you can’t breathe. It’s never something large, oh no. It’s walking into the kitchen at two in the morning and seeing his caf cup still on its hook because you can’t bear to take it down. It’s the sheet music of the last song he played on the piano. It’s the stack of datapads on the end table, unread, forever unread. It’s rolling over as dawn breaks in the storm filled sky and just for a moment, before your brain wakes up, being sure he’s there because you can smell his shampoo and of course here’s there, where else would he be?

But he isn’t, and he never will be again, and after that you wonder why you’ve been holding back. You wonder who you’ve been being strong for, and you cry. You haven’t cried like this since you realized you didn’t have the courage to throw yourself out of Crisan’s bedroom window, since you accepted being a slave over the release of death. You cry great gasping sobs that tear at your chest, leave you tensed, curled in a ball, sparks of lightning flickering around you.

Little by little, day by day, the unthinkable becomes normal. You wake alone, still scowling at your alarm clock. You drink your caf in quiet solitude, sitting in the gazebo on the rooftop for the first time in you don't know how long. You notice the garden suffering for your neglect, weeds threatening to overtake the flowers. After a brief moment considering just letting it run wild, you sigh, gather the tools from the workbench, and set to clearing them. You come home to an empty house, your Holonet dramas too loud in the quiet space, untempered by discussion and laughter and love, so much love you can still hardly believe you were ever a part of it.

Oh, sometimes something will bring you to a standstill, melancholy clawing at your throat. The opening strains of your favorite romanza. A heavy tread outside your office. The wafting scent of freshly baked pastries. It’s always something you don’t expect, and you recover more quickly now, but that ache will always be there.

You learn to sprawl in the large bed, and you’re both relieved and guilty, like maybe you shouldn’t be okay with your life carrying on. You re-learn to craft a life alone, after you fought so hard against ever being shackled to anyone. You re-learn to smile, to laugh, to let color seep back into your life. Memories now are most often accompanied by a gentle upturn of your mouth, and you can tell your amusing anecdotes without a lump in your throat. _Progress_ , you think, _I am finally making progress_.


	34. AU: Eternity in Solitude (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another angsty ficlet. Warnings for death, child death, blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sum total of creating words in Sith thus far has been nicknames - _qilitzarai_ ("tempest") and _kharsa_ ("beloved").

Something is wrong.

Kryn knows it like she knows her own name, like she knows the man seated at the table with her, like she knows the Force.

She’s been able to feel Amata this whole time, and now she can’t.

Her fork clatters to her plate as everything goes fuzzy. The last thing she remembers before she falls unconscious is his name on her lips.

*

They’ve both dropped the guard they keep between them, and everything is magnified, echoed, felt as one.

He is at her back, strong and steady, even as she trips in and out of delirium. She dimly realizes that her body, at this late stage, has decided to reject the pregnancy, that their daughter is already gone, that maybe they _can’t_ conceive. Darth Taigren places a too small bundle - dark hair, impossibly tiny perfect features - into Kryn’s free arm, and she feels a tear fall onto her bared shoulder as Marr leans forward and kisses her temple.

She’s suddenly so _tired_. They still have each other and she’ll be there for him in the coming months but right now he’s there and she just needs to let go.

Just for a minute.

She hopes he’ll forgive her this one moment of weakness. 

*

Marr stands for his portrait, rigid and unmoving, his visage hidden as it has been since the Empress died, in the great foyer of Tsyaira. He can’t bear to have it taken in the garden; her laugh still echoes among the flowers, dances in the fountains.

_“You know I don’t want to be tied to politics forever, qilitzarai.”_

_“You won’t! Once Amata comes, I’ll take the serum, then we’ll raise her, see her crowned, and you and are I done with politics, with all this responsibility that’s been on our shoulders, and we can finally be free. But you take it now, so you don’t end up getting freedom when you’re too old to use it. Though you’re already pushing it, of course, kharsa.”_

Of course, Tsyaira is haunted, as well. 

By laughter, conversations past, whispered tender declarations. By their plans for a child that never drew a breath, born too soon and too small. By their plans for their future, a future destroyed in one cruel twist of fate, heralded by shrill medical alarms, a rush of people, Darth Taigren’s murmured _I am so sorry, there was nothing we could do, it was all over too quickly_ , unbearable sympathy in her amber eyes as Kryn’s blood dries on her hands. Nothing anyone could do, despite Kryn’s Force power, and his own, and the technological marvels in the Imperial Medical Corps. She was there, and then she was gone, and he still doesn’t know what to do with the emptiness where their bond had been. 

One by one, people had left their rooms, and he’d sat there holding his wife and daughter until Taigren had gently suggested he let her take care of the details before the state funeral. He’d agreed. Called Kryn’s sisters to break the news. Let Ca’ii rail at him until she’d hung up in a tearful fury because he knows she’s right. If he’d never accepted the Council’s nomination, they’d have made their bid for immortality shortly after Vitiate was defeated, and Kryn would still be alive, wouldn’t she?

He’d kept tabs on the Sartoris clan; it’s what Kryn would have wanted. Watched over each of them until they passed on, gone to their funerals incognito. 

He still writes Kryn a letter every year on their anniversary; they pile up in a beautifully carved box on his dresser. Tends the flowers they’d planted together, though her flowers from Tython were far too attuned to Kryn herself and didn’t survive past the first year. Sometimes he wonders where they’d be now if their plans had come to fruition. Sometimes he even considers disappearing.

But he has always done his duty.


	35. A Little Light Reading (Semiri/Scourge)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scourge has to know what Semiri's reading. He finally gets his chance.
> 
> (Follows [this piece of fam!fiction](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3404591/chapters/10006562).)

Scourge has been biding his time, waiting for his chance, and it has finally come. Semiri has been carting around that datapad for a week, never leaving it unattended, and the curiosity over what’s on it has been consuming him. Today she’s finally slipped up and left it on the table in the study while she goes to watch that stupid soap opera, and he’s determined to read it.

“‘The Knight and the Prince’ … what twaddle is she reading now? Is this from Kira?” He skims the first page. “Is this … wait, is this a story about her?” He flips back to the title page, searching for an author, but doesn’t find one. Settling into the chair Semiri recently vacated, he starts reading from the beginning. He’s caught up in the story when someone clears their throat. 

“… Sith … what are you reading?” Semiri stands in the doorway, tapping her fingers on the frame.

“I -” He looks guilty for all of a second. “I had to see what was in this jealously guarded datapad, Jedi.”

She folds her arms and tries to look unamused even as her face flames. “And was it worth it? You know, invading my privacy?”

“That depends. Do you rescue me?”

Even pressing her lips together can’t quite smother her smile. “I guess you may as well finish it and find out.”

He immediately settles back into the chair, completely tuning her out until he finishes the story. He stands and crosses the room to her side. “I’m assuming you know the author?“

A thousand questions sit unasked in her mouth as she looks up at him. “Yes.” 

“You should let them know that I enjoy their storycrafting, even if they clearly don’t know the first thing about Sith alchemy.” A flicker of a smile twitches the corner of his mouth. “And at least you have good taste in princes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’m due to spar with Kira.” He hands the datapad back and strides out of the study, leaving Semiri staring after him.


	36. Stalwart Defender (Big Bro!Pierce & Lil Sis!Vette)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierce doesn't put up with people talking shit about Vette. Ever.

They didn’t even make it to the goddamn bar this time, Pierce idly notes as he closes one fist around the asshole’s shirt and hauls him off the ground, where he landed when Pierce legswept him. They used to at least be able to get to the bar and have a couple of drinks before some drunk piece of shit came up and said something fucked up to Vette. 

Maybe it’s just this row of cantinas outside the naval base. He’d heard good things about the bands, but it’s not worth it to see Vette’s face crumple every time, even if she tries to hide it before Pierce notices.

Pierce always notices. 

And he for damn sure isn’t going to tolerate it. Even when Vette tentatively touches his arm, her tone placating. “Pierce, it’s fine. Not anything I’m not used to.”

“Shouldn’t have to be used to it, Sunshine.” He shakes the man. “I can tell you’re military by that shitty barracks haircut,” he growls as the shorter man dangles in his grip, the muscles in his arm sorely testing the fabric of his shirt. “Name and rank, now.”

It’s important to make sure you’re not knocking out some major’s teeth, after all. He doesn’t expect he’ll ever get promoted, but he doesn’t really feel like getting demoted, either. And the Wrath will only intercede with pissed off superiors so many times before she tells him he’s made his own bed. He has to pick and choose those instances carefully.

The man’s lip curls in a sneer and he spits at Pierce’s feet. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Wrong fucking answer.” One quick punch, and blood is all over the man’s face and dripping down onto Pierce’s arm by the time Pierce holds him out toward Vette. “Apologize to my friend here for the disgusting bantha shit that fell out of your mouth.”

“Friend?” The man snorts. “Nobody’s friends with these things. They’re here for our entertainment, man. All they’re good for is -”

Pierce hustles the guy across the room, and two teeth go flying when his head connects with the bartop, accompanied by the sharp crunch of his nose breaking. Pierce gets in three more punches by the time the bouncers reach him, then drops the now-unconscious soldier, delivering one last vicious kick to his ribs before he and Vette are unceremoniously tossed out of the cantina.

He inspects his hand before looking over at Vette. It’s gonna be bruised to shit, but it was worth it. It’s always worth it. “Sorry, Sunshine. Know you wanted to see that band, but I’m not letting some asswipe like that say that shit about you.”

“You know one cantina’s pretty much like the next, Meathead.” The joking tone slides out of her voice as she studies him. “You have to stop taking it so personally, Pierce. I’m used to it.”

His jaw tightens. “But you shouldn’t be.”

“But I am, and you can’t beat the shit out of everyone who says something like that.”

He gives her a withering look. “Didn’t know you had so little faith in me.” 

She laughs outright at this. “I have plenty of faith in your ability to make people bleed, but at this rate, we won’t be able to go out drinking anywhere in this town.” She takes his hand, looks at it. “Should probably ice it or it’s gonna swell and Lysch will notice, if she hasn’t already heard about this by tomorrow. Wanna just pick up some beer and go watch movies at your place?”

“Yeah, all right.” He grins at her. “I get to pick the beer. Your beer-picking privileges are revoked after that fruit-filled abomination you got last time.”

“Only if you give me a piggyback ride to the speeder.”

He shakes his head. “No way, I’m not your - where’d you … aw, shit, dammit, Vette!” 

She’s already backed up and is now running at him full speed, and he either has to crouch enough for her to get on his back, or let her run into him; he’s dropping into a crouch even as he’s halfheartedly scowling at her, and she launches herself onto his back.

“You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that, Sunshine?” he grumbles as he stands.

She reaches around and pinches his cheek. “Awww, but you love me, Meathead, or you wouldn’t be beating the shit out of people for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Come on.”


	37. Darth Marr is Hangry (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Council meeting has run long, and everyone wants food. Getting them to agree on what to order is another matter entirely.

“No, no no no. Wait.” Callidus shakes his head. “There’s this great place in the Garden District -”

“The Garden District!” Lana throws up her hands. “That’ll take over an hour to get here! At least order from the Citadel District so we can eat before Life Day.”

“I bet we could get my favorite diner to deliver.” Atroxa is already looking for the frequency. “After all, it _is_ for the Council.”

Vowrawn chuckles. “While an admirable suggestion, I don’t know if syrup and sticky buns are the best idea for plates we have to hold on our laps.”

“Not to cause any more issues,” Otium says, raising her hand, “but I’m a vegetarian. Can we at least order from somewhere with -”

“Councilors!” The room falls silent and everyone turns to look at Marr. “This meeting is already interminably long. It shows no sign of ending. All you’re doing is making it last longer. If we cannot decide as a group on where to eat I’m simply going to choose because I’d like to leave this room sometime before next week.”

“Oooh, _snarky_ Darth Marr has decided to attend this meeting, I see,” Kryn says, chortling. “He’s been missing since Yavin; this will be a refreshing change of pace. Snarky Marr is my favorite version of you.”

His stare would have cowed anyone in the Empire … except Nox, who simply smirks at him. It takes extraordinary willpower to not crush the datapad in his hand. “You are _not. helping_.”

“I rarely do, I might remind you.”

“I am very well aware of this particular facet of your personality, _Councilor_. If you don’t have a suggestion, let the rest of us handle this.”

She gives him a shockingly sarcastic bow. “By all means, _senior_ Councilor. Handle the food situation. Why don’t we have the Seconds take care of this?” She pretends to think. “Oh, that’s right. Someone - I won’t name names, but it was you - sent them home.” She looks around. “Why are you coordinating all this anyway? Just have everyone order what they want on their own.”

“No. I don’t want twelve different interruptions; that is not conducive to concluding our business.”

“Oh, for -” She snorts, yanks her holocom out of her pocket and punches a button; a hologram flickers to life. “Andronikos. Remember … what was her name … the girl you dated for two months.”

One eyebrow swoops upward, and Andronikos folds his arms. “If you’re calling that in, you need a big favor. What is it?”

“I need food for the Council. I’m going to send you everyone’s orders. Can you pick it up and bring it in? I’ll meet you in the main lobby.”

“You know that place gives me the creeps, Sith.”

Kryn studies him for a moment, tapping her chin. “Ah ha! Ajari. That’s her name. Who introduced you to Ajari, again?”

“Damn you.” He sighs. “Fine. Send me everything.”

She grins widely. “Thank you, Andronikos.” After disconnecting, she looks around the Council chamber. “Well, send me what you want to eat.” As the other Councilors focus on their datapads, Kryn gives Marr a thoroughly arrogant smile. “Taken care of, Darth Snark. Feel free to thank me at your leisure.”

“Thank you, Darth Nox,” he says between gritted teeth. “I’ll be sure to note your cooperation in this meeting’s minutes.”


	38. And This One Time, on Life Day (Kryn/Pierce)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn and Pierce had a bit too much to drink while they were playing cards. Lysch is not happy about this development.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place somewhere in Act 2, sometime in 1338. Kryn and Pierce had ... a bit of history. It ended _mostly_ amicably.

Ca’ii’s house, as it always is on Life Day, is full of noise the morning after the family dinner … “family dinner,” of course, having been expanded to crews and occasional significant others and generally a house full of people at this point.

“Is everyone up? We’ve still got to figure out the speeder situation if we’re all going to get breakfast,” Raitlia says, striding down the hall toward the living room as she pins her hair into a messy bun. “Not that we’re in a rush, but the longer we take the more crowds we’re dealing with.”

“Kryn’s not, but no one wants to wake her up. You know how she is in the morning,” Ca’ii says, caf cup in hand. “But the caf’s done, so if you manage to get her to hustle to the kitchen for a cup - or four - before we go she should be fine.”

Lysch sighs. “I’ll get her.” She makes her way to Kryn’s room and slaps the door panel. “Ca’ii has the caf made, so why don’t you ….”

She trails off as she steps into the room and notices that there are too many people in the bed.

She knows that arm. And that tattoo.

“Kryn, are you fucking kidding me?”

Kryn lifts her head for a moment, revealing an askew eye covering and a tangled disaster of red hair. “Umm … no? That’s certainly not who I was fucking, unless someone else showed up.”

There’s a rumbling chuckle from the mountain of blanket next to Kryn. “Was that an option? You didn’t tell me that was an option. I had people I could have called, you know.”

Ca’ii rounds the corner, caf in hand. “Kryn, I brought you … oh. Oh!” A wide grin spreads across her face. “I didn’t know I needed to bring _two_ cups. Soooo … how was your pazaak game last night?”

Kryn, her head already back on her pillow, gives Ca’ii a thumbs up. “You can leave the caf on the table if you want.”

“No, you can get your lazy ass out of bed and go get it yourself,” Lysch snaps, making a shooing motion at Ca’ii, who makes no move to leave the room. “Honestly, I shouldn’t have to babysit you at a damn holiday gathering, Kryn’la.”

“Oooh, the full name,” Pierce says from under the blankets, clearly entertained. “You’re in for it now. Time to face the Wrath’s wrath.”

“Don’t even get me started on _you_ , Lieutenant. Is it so much to ask, Kryn, that you exhibit just a sliver of self-control?”

“Wait.” Kryn props herself up on her elbows. “Why are -” She pauses as Pierce reaches up and adjusts the crooked eye covering. “Thank you. Anyway, Lysch, why are you only yelling at me? It takes two to ….” She twiddles her fingers, searching for a suitably bawdy comparison.

“Do all the fun shit we did last night. The ties definitely would have been right out.”

Kryn points at Pierce. “That. So how about you share the lecture?”

“Because you’re my sister and you are Sith and thus held to a higher standard!” Lysch folds her arms and glowers at Kryn. 

“He’s part of your crew! Isn’t he technically your underling?”

“I expect it from him!”

Kryn gives her a look of disbelief. “But not from me?”

“Not _together_!”

Ca’ii holds up a hand. “Kryn, I get details later, right?”

“Not now, Ca’ii.” Lysch jabs a finger toward the door. “Kryn, don’t you and that pirate of yours have some … _thing_ going on?”

“Yeah. It’s called ‘Andronikos owes me a hundred and fifty credits because this happened and now I have a witness.’”

Pierce boosts himself up onto one elbow at this, mock offense on his face. “Was that all I was to you? Credits? A _bet_?”

Kryn shrugs, grinning. “Awww. I know I said I loved you, but that was definitely the liquor talking.”

“You know,” he continues, Lysch all but forgotten, “I really think I should get half of those credits. I mean, you won them because of me.”

“I won them because of alcohol and the fact that I’m irresistible,” she retorts. “You weren’t exactly difficult to get into bed. Or onto the floor, the chair, and my desk. Not to mention, half? I think you’re vastly overestimating how much work you did last night.”

“What’s going on? Lysch, we can hear you yelling down the hall and -” Raitlia comes to an abrupt stop in the doorway, brows drawing together as she takes in the scene in front of her. “Oh, honestly, Kryn, really?”

“I’m not about to have my reputation be endangered,” Pierce says, reaching for Kryn. “Can’t have a Sith lord going around saying she didn’t get her credits’ worth.”

“No. _No_.” Lysch all but stomps her foot. “Kryn, I swear - Pierce, don’t you -”

“If you stay, you have no one but yourself to blame for whatever you end up seeing.” Kryn laughs as Lysch and Raitlia storm out of the room, Lysch angrily proclaiming that Kryn won’t be joining us, she’s too busy being an irresponsible jackass, followed by Andronikos’ pained _damn it I shouldn’t have made that fucking bet_. 

A long distracted moment later, she realizes the room hasn’t been completely vacated. “Ca’ii, get the hell out,” she mutters with good-natured irritation. “I agreed to details, not a show. At least, not a free one.”

“Show’s a hundred credits extra,” Pierce murmurs against Kryn’s neck. “Only fair.”

“A hundred! Pffft.” Ca’ii’s out of the chair like a shot. “I’ll just talk to you when we get back.”

“Bring me pancakes?”

“Lysch is gonna complain, you know, but of course I will.” She grins. “Don’t forget to hydrate.”


	39. All Good Things Must Come to an End (Kryn/Pierce)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn gets twitchy when relationships get too serious.

[1]  
“I just think we both have so much going on that any sort of … relationship would get in the way.” Kryn’s hologram shifts from foot to foot, smooths the front of her skirt, tucks her hair behind her ears. The hesitance sits poorly on her; she isn’t made for anything less than bold action. “Don’t you think so, Pierce?” 

He doesn’t say _you didn’t say that when you engineered those four days on Hoth, or the three on Voss, or the six on that beach_.

He doesn’t say _but it didn’t during all those late-night conversations that left us sleep-deprived_.

He doesn’t say _that’s not what you said when we were in the capital and you ‘requisitioned’ me from the Wrath for two weeks_.

He doesn’t say _but it would be worth it_.

He needs a beer.

Her shoulders slump when she sighs. “I’m … sorry, Pierce. I am. I owe you a drink next time we’re on the same planet. But I’ve got to deal with this Kaggath Thanaton’s called, and I just don’t know when we’d be able to -” 

He holds up a hand to still her words. “No, you’re right, my lord.“ He doesn’t miss how she flinches when he uses the honorific instead of her name and suddenly wishes he could take it back. “After all, we agreed it was just a diversion. You and I aren’t cut out for serious things.” 

“That’s right.” She’s uncharacteristically quiet, biting her lip before she speaks. “Still friends?” 

He gives her a withering look “Don’t be a jackass. Of course we are.” Silence spins out, heavy and uncomfortable, as neither of them ends the call. He finally takes a slow breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Hey, Kryn.”

“Pierce?” 

He wonders if he’s imagining the tremor in her voice. 

“Kick his ass, okay? Then call and tell me all about it.”

“I will.”

She terminates the call, but not before he sees her face crumple.

[2]  
Kryn, on her way to deal with Thanaton once and for all, is sure she’s prepared for anything as she steps off the elevator in the Academy. The Councilor’s bag of tricks is empty and he’s gone running back to the Council. She whistles an aimless tune as she pivots sharply, stalking down the hallway toward the tall, imposing black doors.

She stops short so suddenly that Xalek bumps into her back, her gaze fixed on the two people at the end of the hall. The Pureblood woman studies Kryn, her stern expression unchanging. “Sister.”

A bare nod out of deference to Lysch’s position, but it’s not the Wrath that draws Kryn’s attention; it’s the soldier standing behind her, woefully out of place in this section of the Academy. She doesn’t miss the hurt that flashes in his eyes, the way his mouth tightens just for a moment before it relaxes again, the way familiarity isn’t even an afterthought on his features.

She wasn’t wrong, dammit. A relationship never would have worked. Relationships aren’t a thing that work out for her, and it’s better she hurt him early, better she ended it rather than giving in and pretending that maybe this one would work out, that something wouldn’t go wrong, that it wouldn’t end up like every other time she’s let herself fall in love with someone.

But she wasn’t expecting this to hurt as much as it does, wasn’t expecting the twist of pain in her stomach, nor the way her throat closes when she looks at him. Or maybe she was, and that’s why she’s been avoiding him since that last awful comm conversation. Oh, they exchange messages here and there, and she read all the reports about the Bastion, but they don’t talk, not like they used to. She’s started wondering if they can even be friends, or if it’s just too hard and too painful.

“Pierce.”

There’s a flash of a smile, just a small one. “Fancy meeting you here, Sith. I’d’ve polished my armor if I knew I was gonna see you.”

“You haven’t polished your armor a day in your life, Lieutenant.” A pause. “Good job on the Bastion.” A longer one. “I tried to call a few times, but, ah … you guys have been busy.”

A thousand things remain unsaid in his mouth. “Yeah, we have. So have you. Got yourself a fleet, I heard.”

“I did. Sent Thanaton packing all the way back here.” This conversation is stilted and awful and she doesn’t know how to fix it, so she falls silent, fingers curling around the reassuring weight of her saber hilt. 

“Good. Knew you would.” He shifts his weight from his right foot to his left. “So … how’ve you been?”

Lysch’s voice snaps like a whipcrack before Kryn can answer. “Can you two have this discussion later? I didn’t come here to watch you two look pathetic.”

“Such a romantic, Lysch. Never change.” Kryn bites the inside of her lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. “Hang around after you’re done stabbing whoever Lysch is here to stab?”

He’s silent for so long, inspecting his boots, unnecessarily checking his gauntlets, that she’s sure he’s going to say no. “How’s the food?”

“Shit. But the cake is good.”

“Yeah, all right.” He opens his mouth, closes it again. For a second, the hurt falls off his face. “You’re still my favorite, you know.”

It’s not a lot, but it’s a first step, and she’s not sure if she’s going to laugh or cry with relief. “Liar. Your favorite will always be you.”

“Can’t blame me for having great taste.” He falls into step behind Lysch as the doors open, tossing her a glance over his shoulder. “Later, Kryn.”

“Later, Pierce.”


	40. A Rushed Kiss (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marr's got work to do, but has business with Kryn first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt of the same name.

Kryn, still clad in a gauzy white dressing gown, has boosted herself up onto the counter and is sipping a cup of caf by the time Marr finally makes his way downstairs. His tread is heavier than usual, and when he rounds the corner already armored from head to toe, she doesn’t even need to ask about his early morning meeting with Moff Tottgro. 

“When I give orders, I expect them to be followed, not to be questioned by officers unable to see the larger picture,” he mutters to himself as he shoves things aside on his desk, a current of threat running through his words. “Now Atroxa and I have to correct his incompetence, when we shouldn’t be spending any more time on this -” He lapses into a stream of Sith that Kryn is _pretty_ sure isn’t complimentary before snatching three datacards and his holocom off the desk. 

He’s almost to the door when he stops, abruptly pivots, and storms back into the kitchen. In a flash, he removes his mask and braces one hand on the counter next to Kryn, the fire in his eyes fading. “I’ll have to pass on our standing caf meeting today, qilitzarai, and I may be working late. As soon as I know I’ll let you know.” He kisses her, quick and insistent, brushing his thumb along the curve of her lower lip as he straightens. “I love you. I hope your day is better than mine.”

“Off to a good start with that kiss,” she says with a smile, handing him his mask. “Let me know if I can help.”

“The moff is lucky you can’t get to him in a day or I might take you up on that.” He fits his mask to his face. “I’ll see you sometime tonight.”


	41. Scars (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of fluff with Kryn and Marr.

“What’s this one?” Kryn, curled up against Marr, traces the pale line of scar tissue that slashes across one of the fingers on his right hand.

“My father was teaching me how to make rotoven. My knife slipped and that was the result. I was … hmm.” He trails off, thinking back. “I was home from the Academy for the holiday, and I only came home twice, so I’d have been … ah, I was sixteen.”

She surveys the other myriad scars on his hands. “How many of these are from cooking?”

He points out a few. “That one. This here. This.” He turns his hand over, displaying a wide, faint set of scars on his palm and fingers. “Forgot I’d taken the skillet out of the oven and grabbed the handle. That’s when I started becoming more proficient with my off hand.”

Kryn cringes. “See why I don’t cook?”

He lifts her left hand and presses a kiss to the web of burn scars on it. “No, you find much more creative ways to acquire scars, _qilitzarai_. And you do a fine job of cooking in that game of yours.”

She tilts her head back and smirks at him. “Yesterday you were deriding my game because _all you do is click on things what is the point_ , remember?”

“I remember.” He kisses her forehead. “But it’s the safest form of cooking for someone of your inimitable skill.”

She halfheartedly swats at his arm in mock offense. “The last time you got snooty about my cooking ability, you ended up tackled into a snowbank and covered in flour, if I recall correctly.”

He chuckles. “I did. It was worth it.” 

“Ass.”

“I love you, too.”


	42. Skill Evaluation (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn's still a little annoyed about the combat trials, and gets a bit of good-natured revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between chapter 42 and chapter 43 of [Chaos & Opportunity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3265439?view_full_work=true)

Kryn retucks the end of her towel, leans over the counter, and turns her head, wincing as she gingerly touches the angry deep purple bruise that takes up most of the left side of her face. “I can’t believe you punched me in the face yesterday during that combat trial.” Her lower lip pokes out as she watches him in the mirror. “I thought you loved me.”

“I do love you.” Marr finishes shaving and gives his reflection a critical once-over before setting the razor on the counter. “And I’d prefer you stay alive. That’s why there were consequences for dropping your guard. I’m not going to go easy on you.”

“You punched me.” She turns, drawing a circle in the air around the bruise. “In the _face_ , Matthius. With that planetoid-sized fist.”

“I’m not whining nearly so much about the mark on my thigh that _exactly_ matches the size and shape of the sole of your favorite pair of boots,” he says mildly, pointing at the end of said bruise peeking out of the bottom of his shorts. He bends over the sink to rinse his face as her expression twists into an impressive scowl, feeling around on the countertop and inwardly sighing when he realizes he forgot to grab his towel. “Is it even worth it to ask you to hand me my towel?”

“Oh, _this_ towel?” Kryn stands just out of reach, dangling a hand towel from one finger, thoroughly smug look on her face. 

“No, the one downstairs,” he snarks with no small amount of exasperation. “Don’t start something you’re going to lose. I don’t know if your pride can handle losing two days in a row.”

She grins, ignoring how her face hurts when she does. “You had to fight a lot of people yesterday, old man, and you know you don’t intimidate me. Never have, never will.” She takes another deliberate step backward. “Look out, you’re dripping water on your pristine floor.”

“One more step in the wrong direction, Kryn, and -”

This time she laughs outright and speeds out of the ‘fresher, slapping the door panel on her way out, and she’s almost to the bedroom door by the time he catches up to her. He pays no mind to her flailing as he lifts her up, easily tossing her across the room and onto the bed. 

“Such an overreaction!” She balls up the towel and throws it at him, though she doesn’t make any effort to get off the bed. “I didn’t know you were so thin-skinned.”

The makeshift projectile doesn’t even slow his advance; he simply swats it away. “Who’s thin-skinned? I’m not the one holding a grudge over my sub-par hand to hand skills.”

“That so?” Kryn makes a distinctly off-color gesture. “Get over here and we can reevaluate my _skills_.”


	43. Tiny Admirer (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darth Marr intimidates the entire Empire, or so he thinks.

Kryn and Marr, on their way to the armorsmith, stop for a snack at Kryn’s insistence, getting into a line snaking away from a food cart in the center of the bustling square. She shifts her weight to her other foot and peers around the person in front of her. “I didn’t realize this line was so long.”

“Of course not; you’re too short. I tried to tell you.”

She makes a face at him. “I know. It’s worth it, though. Their crumb cakes are the best.” 

There’s a slight commotion at the front of the line, and then a woman with braided blonde hair - _Kirmi_ , her nametag proclaims - seemingly materializes out of thin air next to Kryn. “My lords, I didn’t realize you were waiting in line! I’ll take your order now, and you can come wait over -”

Kryn holds up a hand. “It’s not necessary, Kirmi; we can wait.”

“Oh no, I insist.” She pulls a datapad out of her apron pocket. “What can I get started for you?”

“I’ll take one … no, two of your cinnamon crumb cakes, warmed up, and whatever today’s specialty latte is in the largest size you have.” Kryn considers, then nods. “That should be everything.”

The woman’s fingers dart across the screen of her datapad, glancing from Kryn to Marr. “Anything else, my lord?”

Kryn gives Marr an inquiring look; he answers it with a minute head shake. Kryn shrugs. “Your loss.” She turns her attention back to Kirmi. “That’s everything for us, I guess.”

She nods. “Very good, my lord. Just follow me, please.”

They step out of line and follow her; Kryn settles into one of the two chairs at the vacant cafe table near the pickup window. “Are you going to sit down or are you going to loom like a big, humorless giant?” When he doesn’t move, she grins. “You are so devoted to your … whatever this thing is you do,” Kryn says, trying to contain her laughter as she pulls a datapad out of her back pocket. 

The unnatural hush that falls over the line a few minutes later draws her attention away from her reading; she looks over the top of the datapad and immediately has to bite the inside of her cheek at the sight that greets her. A small child, a girl of not more than three with a profusion of nut-brown hair, has toddled up to Marr and is very determinedly pulling on his hand. Any doubt as to the child’s intent is immediately dispelled when she lets go and raises both arms.

“Up!”

_Kryn_. 

Kryn very studiously scrolls through her datapad. _Matthius_.

_A little help?_

Kryn’s hair bobs when she shakes her head. _You pick the child up. How much help can you possibly need?_ She ignores the glare she can feel rather than see, pretending to read while watching him.

“Up!” This time, the girl screws up her face.

_That look means she’s going to start wailing if you don’t pick her up, you big meanie_.

Misgiving radiates off him, but Marr crouches, putting himself closer to eye level with the child. She grins widely and holds her arms out. “Up?”

“You’re quite persistent, child.”

“Up!”

Kryn abandons her reading entirely but keeps her datapad raised, concealing the smile she can’t repress as Marr slides his hands under the child’s outstretched arms and lifts her off the ground. The little girl gasps when he stands up, craning her head to observe her surroundings from such a lofty perch. She wraps one hand around a shoulder spike, pulling herself even higher, and bounces excitedly when she notices someone approaching. “Mama! Hi, Mama!”

A woman in fitted black and cream robes, lightsaber attached to her belt, comes rushing over. “Cassai Alyela Sikecha, I’ve been looking for you everywh- ” She stops mid-tirade. “Darth Marr!” She immediately inclines her head. “I apologize, my lord, for my daughter’s impertinence. I hope she hasn’t inconvenienced -”

Marr holds up his free hand, the other still steadying Cassai, who shows no interest in relinquishing her seat. “Child, did you run away from your mother?”

“Uh-huh.” Cassai waves again, nodding. “Hi, Mama! I up!”

Marr’s voice is stern. “You need to go back to your mother.”

The girl’s lower lip pokes out. “No. Don’t wanna.”

“Cassai!”

Marr waves this off, carefully extricating his armor from the child’s grasp and passing the now-petulant girl to her mother. “You have a very strong minded child.”

The woman sighs. “I do, my lord.”

“It will serve her well at the Academy.”

“I do hope so, my lord.” She looks down at Cassai. “Can we get lunch without you running off to accost any more Council members?”

“Hungry, Mama.”

They disappear back into the crowded square as Kirmi reappears with Kryn’s order. “Here you go, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Kryn takes the bag and the cup of caf. “Have a good day.” She tucks the datapad back into her pocket and stands. “Darth Marr, are you ready?”

“Yes.” He consults his chrono. “We’ll have to hurry to make your appointment at the armorsmith.”

She falls into step beside him. _I didn’t know you were so good with children. That was kind of adorable. By which I mean, incredibly adorable_.

_I’m sure you think so_.

This time she doesn’t even try to hide her smirk.


	44. Music Meditation (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn has a very particular way of meditating. Marr does his best to be supportive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really just here for supportive, respectful relationships.

[1]  
Marr can tell Kryn isn’t home before he even opens the door. Despite his decades of purposefully chosen solitary living, he’s grown used to the way their lives are so thoroughly intertwined and now the expansive, well-appointed rooftop residence feels emptier when she’s not there.

It’s a simple thing, easy as breathing, to reach out and find her. _Kryn?_

_Oh, I forgot to leave you a message_. She sounds distracted, far away, though he can still tell she’s in the city, likely in her own apartment, and feels fractious and jittery. _I’m just doing some meditation, that’s all. Not sure when I’ll be back. You can eat without me_.

He could, of course, but he’d rather not if he’s given a choice. _I could come cook there, if you’re amenable. But I leave the decision to you_.

_I … suppose. As long as you don’t interrupt my meditation, of course_.

She’s more hesitant than she’s been with him in a long time; he can’t help but wonder why, and his curiosity is piqued. _You know I wouldn’t_.

_I’ll see you when you arrive. I may not notice when you get here, but I’ll notice eventually_.

[2]  
The shimmering violet shield reactivates as Marr deactivates his speeder, and even from the garage he can hear loud music thrumming through Kryn’s apartment. If this is her meditation, it’s a sort he’s never encountered. 

The wall of sound hits him when the inner door slides open, a turbulence of percussion and angry-sounding strings and growled words. He can’t help how his eyes widen as he listens, the lyric an astonishingly subversive verse that would quite possibly get the musicians hauled in for questioning. He makes his way up the curved staircase and finds Kryn bouncing around her living room, mouthing the lyrics and miming playing an instrument. 

He opens his mouth to say her name, realizes almost immediately that there’s no way she’d hear him, and settles onto the couch instead. 

There’s a sheen of sweat on her brow and she’s breathing heavily by the time the song ends. She looks over at Marr, then turns toward the stereo and makes a small gesture; the music pauses two notes into the next song. “I’m not done, of course, but I thought I should at least greet you properly.” She takes in the skeptical curve of his mouth. “If you don’t want to stay through all this, I understand. I mean, it’s certainly not the Kaas Orchestra.”

“No, that’s not it. This music is ….” He closes his mouth on the first three things he thinks to say, opts for something less divisive. “It’s very you.”

She meets his gaze, no apology on her face. “The Empire was a pretty awful place for me for a long time. It got better for me, and it’s getting better for others, but there’s a lot of anger there. Sometimes you just have to let it out.” She shrugs. “The music helps. And no, I won’t tell you who the musicians are.”

“Surely you can trust me by now.” He’s almost hurt by her reticence.

“It isn’t that. It’s simply that you will always be, well ….” She shrugs. “Authority. I mean, that’s what you embody in the Empire, isn’t it? Have since before I was around, very possible you will after I’m gone given how stubborn you are.”

“I’m stubborn,” he mutters, finding himself stymied by this line of reasoning. “I don’t know if you’ve realized this, _qilitzarai_ , but you, as a Councilor, are also the embodiment of authority in the Empire.”

“Yes, but when people think of the Council, they think of you, not me.” She watches him for a moment, and her expression softens just a bit. “I do trust you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have said you could come over. I’m not going to tell you to leave, but … no details.”

“As you wish.” He gestures in the general direction of the stereo. “And this helps you? I have to be honest, I wasn’t aware you meditated at all.”

“A lot of mine is in reading and studying. But I can tell when I’m getting agitated. I can’t focus, and I have a tendency to fidget, and everything frustrates me. Listening to this makes it better. So, we can eat here, if you like, or you can wait til I’m done and we can go home.” She waves at the stereo; another wave of sound rolls through the high-ceilinged space, this time a pounding anthem sung by a powerful female voice.

He has to admit it’s catchy, and he can see the appeal. Rather than sit and watch her, though, he retreats into her library, lost in thought.

[3]  
“Have you changed your training regimen?” Kryn asks a week later as she refills her wine glass. “Come to think of it, you’ve rearranged your whole schedule lately. Worked from home the last four days. Spending a lot of time in that spare storage room.”

Marr shakes his head. “Just temporarily so I have more time for this project, which is nearly complete. In fact, I was going to show it to you after dinner.” He beckons at his empty plate, then hers. “Shall we? You can bring your wine.”

“I can leave it.”

He leads her down the hallway, then pauses in front of the closed door across from his training room. “You and I come from very different backgrounds, and sometimes that’s easy for me to forget given how naturally you took to your position as a Councilor.”

“Mm-hmm.” She sets a hand on her hip and looks up at him, just a bit smugly. “I am quite adaptable.”

“You are. But adaptable doesn’t mean that prior experiences don’t still affect you, and if listening to this incredibly loud, shockingly incendiary music is something you need, then you shouldn’t have to leave to do so - unless you want to, of course.” He touches the entry pad, then steps aside as the door slides open, lights winking to life. “After you.”

Kryn steps past him, looking around the room. It’s been fitted with rich gray paneling on all sides, and a gleaming new sound system sits behind transparisteel. A long, low couch and end table hug the far wall, and above them the Code is painted in elegant black script, though its last line is emphasized, slightly larger than the rest.

_The Force shall free me_.

Kryn looks over her shoulder at Marr. “What’s this?”

He points to the empty shelves, also behind transparisteel. “As you well know, I don’t have anything that fits your specific musical tastes. All I could do was guess at how much space you needed. If you need more, we’ll put in more shelves.” He holds up his hands. “I’m not saying you have to listen to it here if you’ve no wish to do so, but I wanted you to have the option.”

“Are you telling me you … made me a meditation room?” She raises an eyebrow. 

He beckons at the walls, ceiling, and floor. “Soundproofed. The only ways I’ll know you’re in here are searching you out through the Force or if you tell me. Meditation is deeply personal for Sith, after all. I would never deign to intrude on yours.” A hint of a smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “Authority or no.”

She turns and takes his hands, studying them. “I -” The single syllable is hoarse, and she clears her throat then falls silent before she presses a series of slow kisses to his knuckles. “Thank you. I’ll have to remember to pick up some of my music next time we’re at my house.”


	45. Anniversary (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn and Marr celebrate their one year anniversary. (The flower Marr gave her is in [this ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4501335/chapters/13026178).)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I put this one on here! Whoops. XD

Kryn, her arms wrapped around a large clay pot, tries to trigger the door sensor with her shoulder to no avail. She groans and batters the bottom of the door with the toe of her shoe; it whispers open, revealing Marr, already changed into loose linen pants.

“You said to bring home my flowers, yes?” She looks down at her full arms. The flower he’d given her months ago, a cutting from a plant grown by the Jedi Agricultural Corps, had taken enthusiastically - perhaps too enthusiastically - to Kryn’s nurturing and blossomed, a riot in shades of purple. Two weeks ago, he’d pointed out how they needed more room than she likely wanted to give them in her office and offered to help her plant them. Lord Sharene, one of the lead botanists in the Sphere of Biotic Science, had come down to help Kryn re-pot the flowers a fourth and final time before Kryn toted them home. “Where should I put these?”

“We’ll take them upstairs now. No point in waiting.” Marr easily lifts the pot out of Kryn’s arms and strides through the house, bound for a panel set into the wall near the dining room.

“A door I’ve never noticed!” Kryn exclaims. “Where does this go?”

He taps a code into the keypad and the panel slides back, revealing a wide elevator. “Rooftop garden.” He steps in, then turns around to face her. “Coming?”

She follows him into the elevator. “Of course.”

A short ride later, the door opens on a lush garden. Flowering vines crawl along the fences that mark the rooftop’s edge. Carefully planned and tended flowerbeds are scattered across the space, adding splashes of color amid vibrant green grass. A small copse of trees takes up the back corner, and a stone walkway winds through the entire space. All of it is glistening in the gently falling rain.

One flower bed near the front has been newly created, its boundary marked by carefully laid bricks. Fresh soil, black and fragrant, is practically begging to be planted with something lush and profuse. Marr sets the pot on the walkway near the new flower bed and sits cross-legged in the nearby grass. “Get the small spade from my worktable, please?”

Kryn strolls over and inspects all the tools neatly mounted on the wall and organized on the tabletop. “I didn’t know you gardened,” she says, plucking the spade off the table and bringing it to him.

“Who did you think maintained all the greenery on top of my building? Vitiate?” He takes the spade and moves soil aside, creating a hole big enough for the flowers’ roots. “I find it relaxing. Come sit here with me and help.”

She looks down at her nice white dress and pouts, then settles onto her knees next to him, feeling the dampness soak through her dress almost immediately. “I don’t know; the building owner?”

“He does.”

“But you said - oh. _Oh_. You own it?”

He shrugs. “Through an intermediary, of course, but yes. Now here.” He takes her hands, gently working her fingers through the twisting stems so her palms are flat on the soil in the pot. “We’re going to invert this to slide the flowers out, then we’ll move them to their new home. Ready?”

She nods.

He flips the pot over; soil dusts her lap as he sets the pot aside and carefully wraps his hands around the root structure. They guide the flowers into the hole, and he beckons at the soil still piled around the sides. “Fill it in?”

Silently bidding farewell to her manicure, Kryn leans over and rakes the dirt back into the hole with both hands. After she’s completely covered the roots, she cups the flowers in her hands, channeling a short burst of Force energy into them. They begin to spread out, the flowers perking up as they adjust to their new surroundings. 

She smiles, pleased. “I still can’t believe you managed to get me flowers from Tython.” The four violet and white flowers - the originals - are surrounded by a veritable storm of purple and black, all grown since Kryn began tending the flower. “Are you ever going to tell me how you managed this?” She quirks an eyebrow at him. “Did you call in some favor with Satele Shan?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I did,” Marr says, deadpan. “I called up Satele Shan and asked her for flowers to outdo my incredibly competitive lover. You know how Jedi adore relationships; she was more than happy to help.”

Kryn sticks her tongue out at him. “Well, if you won’t give me the actual answer, I’ll make things up. Tell me?”

“No. Keep making up your stories.” He brushes loose soil off her hands, holds them in his own. “You know, we started our section of garden on our anniversary,” he remarks casually, as though he hasn’t been thinking about this for a week.

“Our … has it been a _year_?” Kryn tilts her head, thinking. “Really? That long since Rishi?”

“One year since the night I sat in that cacophonous cantina, watching you cheat at cards and chastising myself for my burgeoning attraction to you, yes.” He leans forward, sliding one hand into her crimson hair to cradle the back of her head as he kisses her.

“Hmm. A year since you did that the first time, too.” A mischievous look flits across her features. “We never did get around to having sex in the jungle.” Her fingers leave streaks of dirt along his arms as she runs her palms from his shoulders to his hands, lacing her fingers with his before she returns the kiss.

It’s some time before he answers her, though he couldn’t say how long, lost as he is in the heat of her mouth and the floral notes in her hair and the weight of her in his lap, and when did she clamber into his lap, anyway? Not that he cares; she’s always felt like she belongs there. “That’s true, we didn’t.” Her hands are warm on his rain-dampened skin and he’s finding it increasingly difficult to think clearly, though he isn’t exactly trying to resist the effect she has on him. 

He never really has, truth be told.

“Matthius.” Her breath whispers across his ear and sends a shiver down his spine when she leans close, reaching between them to slowly pull the drawstring on his pants. “Your garden’s close enough to a jungle, yes?” She’s breathless, pulse thundering while her hands trace scars and muscle with delicate, intimate familiarity, and it’s all her and then it’s her desire mingled with his, nearly indistinguishable. “Please say yes.”

“Yes, our garden certainly is.” He watches her bite her lower lip as he sweeps his hands upward along her thighs, rucking her dress toward her waist. “Up, _qilitzarai_. Only for a moment.”

She boosts herself up onto her knees, carding her hands into his increasingly curly hair and scattering kisses across his face. “I need a nickname for you. Teach me one?”

He chuckles, wrapping one hand around the base of his cock. “Down.” He inhales slowly, guiding himself into her as she sinks back onto his lap inch by inch, until she’s taken all of him, a moan caught right behind her teeth. “I can’t give myself a nickname, and I’m sure you have a plethora of them for me already.”

Kryn arches her back when he drags his fingertips along her spine. “But they’re teasing ones. Not anything meaningful.”

“You’ll think of something.” He nips at her collarbone, then wraps one arm around her and rolls her onto her back in the damp grass. “Besides, I love how my name sounds in your mouth.”

“Oh, 1340 you would be so disappointed,” she murmurs with a laugh. “Consorting with ‘that disrespectful, mouthy … _woman_ ,’” she says in a passable imitation of Marr’s annoyed growl.

“1340 me doesn’t know what he’s missing.” He brushes damp hair off her forehead and cradles her to him as he rolls his hips. “I love you, you disrespectful, mouthy woman.”

She smiles up at him, twining her arms around his neck. “And I love you, you humorless old grouch.”


	46. Impulsive Flirtation (Kryn & Cheketta)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Sith lord veers far afield of normal Imperial/Republic encounters while on Balmorra, or That Time Kryn Flirted With Grand Marshal Cheketta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, Kryn flirted her way across the galaxy. A lot of those flirty invitations were accepted. This one was only half-extended, though she occasionally regretted never outright asking.

Kryn pitches her voice a bit lower, fixing the two Imperial soldiers with a stare. One takes an involuntary step backward. “I would have a word with our Republic friend here. Leave us. Wait outside the door. Let no one in.”

“Yes, my lord!” They snap to attention and swiftly march out of the room, closing the door behind them.

The man still standing at parade rest, hands clasped behind him, back straight and eyes forward, doesn’t even glance toward the door. “I know what you Sith do. Whatever information you’re hoping to extract, you won’t get it from me.” His jaw tightens, the only outward sign of how he steels himself for what’s to come.

Kryn strolls toward him, utterly unconcerned with this statement. He’s the ultimate picture of the grizzled, hardened soldier. Black hair cut into a severe military regulation style. Scars on his face, his head, his armor, and Kryn would be willing to bet elsewhere, as well. Unbowed posture even when left alone with the Sith who captured him. Fearless and unyielding. 

She almost smiles at the familiar jump in her pulse.

“Grand Marshal Braegar Cheketta,” she recites in a cheerful tone. “Decorated Republic war hero. A thinking soldier, not a mindless grunt. Able to command such loyalty from your underlings that they are willing to let your Republic throw them under the metaphorical transit vehicle to serve with you.” She splays a hand on his right pauldron, feels scratches even through the nondescript, hastily applied paint. “A patriot so determined to serve the cause he believes in that he scrapes off his insignia and becomes a guerilla fighter.”

When he says nothing, she looks up at him - he’s considerably taller than the diminutive Sith - and smiles. “You’re _fascinating_.”

“What?” Uncertainty flashes in his caf-colored eyes for the first time since Kryn strode into the hangar. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said the Sith was _flirting_ with him. It’s nonsense, of course; the Sith’s treatment of prisoners is well-known in the Republic, and it certainly doesn’t include such frivolity as flirting. But damned if it doesn’t _feel_ like that’s what she’s doing.

“If there’s one thing I’ve noticed since arriving on Balmorra and having a considerable number of run ins with you Republic types,” she continues, trailing a fingertip down the center of his battered durasteel breastplate, “it’s that whatever they feed you in the Republic military produces some very aesthetically appealing individuals. Imagine my surprise when I discover that the man I must track down is fit and broad-shouldered and -” She steps back, catches her lower lip between white, even teeth, looking him up and down. “You are distractingly attractive, Grand Marshal.”

Nothing in any of his training over his decades of service has given him any sort of guideline on how to deal with a Sith coming on to him, and so he remains silent. If she thinks this will lower his resistance, she will find she is greatly mistaken.

“Come now,” she chides sweetly. “I said something nice about you. Proper social decorum dictates you ought to return the compliment. I suppose it’s _possible_ you don’t find me attractive, though highly unlikely.” She tilts her head as a thought occurs to her. “Oh! Is there a Grand Marshal … ess? Ette? A lady waiting for you on Coruscant, sustained only through coded communications and the ever-burning hope that you come home alive? If there is, I’ve no wish to come between you.”

Astonishingly, he finds himself giving the red-haired woman an honest answer. “There is not. This life doesn’t lend itself to warm beds, home and hearth.” A pause. “As I’m sure you’re aware.” He rallies, appallingly weakly. “It’s not as if Sith care about such things, though.”

Kryn presses a hand to her heart and gives him look of genuine injury. “Such horrid propaganda the Republic feeds you! Of course we care about our families, our children.” 

She makes a small gesture, levitates nearly to his own height. Her breath is warm on his ear, and if he moves at all she’ll be kissing the delicate skin. He swallows hard and tightens his hands, still clasped behind his back, trying to ignore the way her murmured words send a shiver down his spine. He will not entertain any sort of interest in her, no matter what less _disciplined_ parts of his brain would like him to do.

“Of course we love,” she says, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him. “We love with all the passion and abandon your Jedi shrink from, with all the intensity your Republic insists we don’t have.” She inhales deeply as she reaches out through the Force, basking just for a moment in his hammering pulse and his shallow breathing. A part of him wants her, though he doesn’t admit it, not even to himself. It would take so little to tip him over the edge, and she is so curious about his kiss, his touch, what he’s like when all the trappings of their factions are stripped away and they’re nothing but a man and a woman, locked in a singular moment in time.

And for a moment, she is sorely, sorely tempted. 

She abruptly lands back on the floor of the hangar and takes two steps away from him before she looks back over her shoulder, her voice almost wistful. “A shame that you’re a Pub. We could have had such fun, you and I.” The wistfulness disappears, replaced with businesslike efficiency. “My soldiers will be returning momentarily. Please ensure your confession is full and detailed, or our next meeting will not be so pleasurable.”

He can do nothing more than stare openmouthed after her as she strides away.


	47. You Tease (Semiri/Scourge)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semiri tries something new, determined to wrest the upper hand away from Scourge at least once.

As Semiri contemplates for the tenth time today how tight her stupid shirt is, she wonders what possessed her to ask Ca’ii for advice about her love life. 

_“You have to make him want it! Stop trotting after him like an obedient little Jedi, show a little skin - I know you’re not, don’t even tell me you are - and make him come to you! Stop letting the old man hold all the cards, Semiri!”_

For all the helpful advice she got, which is to say _none_ , she may as well have asked Kryn. Ca’ii was probably on a holocall to Kryn as soon as Semiri got off her frequency, anyway. But it’s all the advice she got, so she’s going to begrudgingly attempt to be alluring.

She’s trying to look casual, splayed prettily on the bed and ostensibly engrossed in a book when Scourge returns from his shower. 

“I though this morning we could ….” He stops, and she can _feel_ him giving her A Look. “Semiri, are you -?” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“Of course not.” She sits up, sorely missing her flowing tunic, and perches on the edge of the bed, leaning forward just a little more than normal. “You know I always wait for you.” 

His gaze definitely lingers longer than usual this time, she’s sure of it.

-

Semiri spends the rest of the afternoon making a right ass of herself, in her opinion, basically acting like she fell out of one of those dumb romance books Kira likes so much. Little touches here, arching her back more than necessary for that stretch, bending at the waist to pick a flower. But she can feel it working, and he’s all but humming with desire by the time they stop on the bridge to look at the sunset.

“Jedi.”

She bites her lip and takes a deep breath before she turns to look at Scourge. She has to steel her resolve, because he’s using that voice, the patently unfair one he knows gets him whatever he wants.

“Sith?” Her own is nothing but innocence.

“You’re up to something.” He slides his thumb under her chin and tilts her head up toward him. “What are you up to?”

“I’m not up to anything.” Her fingers are a whispering caress as she cradles the back of his head and draws him down toward her, her lips hovering a mere breath away before barely grazing his. She lets him go but makes no move to step away; he may be able to keep a straight face, but the Force tells a different story, and she has to fight against closing her eyes and simply basking in the strength of his reaction, in the thundering in his pulse and the explosion of heat in his chest. “Just spending the day with you, like always.” 

“You _tease_ , Semiri,” he murmurs, eyes widening in realization. “That’s what you’ve been doing to me all day, playing my reactions like a lute.” A smile teases at the corner of his mouth. “How very devious of you.”

She finally talks herself into taking that step backward. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” she says, pleased her voice isn’t trembling. She smooths her shirt down, quite unnecessarily, watching how his eyes follow her hands. “Shall we go have dinner?” She turns toward the building.

“Hmm. Indeed.” He falls into step beside her, resting his hand on the small of her back. “Though I find I’m far more interested in dessert this evening.”


	48. Debts Paid (Lysch & Quinn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysch does not countenance betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this amazing art](http://semper-draca.tumblr.com/post/148477769611/okay-hear-me-out-au-where-quinn-looses-his-hand).

_Now / Dromund Kaas:_  
Major Malavai Quinn has a well-earned reputation as a man of order and discipline. He can quote regulations from memory, and he will always be correct. He has provided invaluable service to the Empire with his endless calculations, his ability to analyze situations thoroughly divorced from emotion, his unswerving devotion.

He believes the outer appearance of a servicemember is the first picture of the care they bring to their work, and as such is always dressed impeccably, in order to set the example. Perfectly tailored shirts, immaculately pressed trousers, all metal and his boots polished to a high shine.

He has, of course, noticed when people’s gazes drop to the single black leather glove he wears on his right hand, though he knows no one will breach decorum and ask what happened. Major Quinn, after all, has served in battles across the galaxy, and for a time at the side of the fearsome Empire’s Wrath. It would be more surprising if he were as unchanged as he’d been at twenty-two, fresh-faced as he entered Officer Candidate School.

 _Then / The Merciless:_  
The Wrath leaves a watch on Quinn after the transponder station, has another member of the crew shadowing him at all times, though she herself refuses to be in the same room with him. Jaesa and Vette both regard him with no small measure of silent pity, which is harder to bear than Pierce’s persistent smirk and unending jabs about his surely impending death.

The _Merciless_ is a day out from Dromund Kaas when Lysch summons the crew. She stands straight-backed, chin raised, as imperious and unmovable as the cliffs behind the Citadel.

“Step forward, Captain.” She snarls his rank like it tastes bad in her mouth.

He does.

Her eyes are hard and he has heard her use this tone of voice before. “You told me you loved me.”

He is not expecting so personal an accounting, stumbles over his answer. “Y-yes, my lord. I did tell you that.” He pauses, briefly considers the wisdom of pressing on. “I still do.”

“Yet to demonstrate this, you attempted to kill me. By Imperial law, I have every right to execute you for your treason.”

Pierce makes no attempt to muffle his muttered _about time_ , glaring down at Vette when she punches him in the kidney. 

“Yes, my lord.” He has had his affairs in order since the transponder station incident. A part of him is quite honestly surprised he’s still alive; he’s seen Lysch - the Wrath, he corrects himself; he no longer has the right to refer to her by her given name - kill for much less than meticulously planned assassination attempts. “I would expect nothing less.”

“I do not care about what you expect,” the Pureblood woman snaps, “and you would be wise to keep your comments to yourself.” When he says nothing more, she continues. “As I was saying, I have every right to execute you. Be grateful, Captain, that the fading remnants of my misguided feelings for you and my duty to the Empire outstrip my desire to see you lifeless on the durasteel.”

He stares at a point somewhere beyond her and says nothing, taking great care to keep any relief off his face.

“However.” She waits until he shifts his gaze to her. “Your actions cannot go unpunished. Extend your right hand.”

Somewhere behind him, someone gasps; he doesn’t know if it’s Vette or Jaesa or both of them.

Time slows as he does as she commands; every sound, no matter how small, is exaggerated. The _click_ as she pulls her saber from her belt, and the _krssssssh_ as she ignites it, washing the two of them in gentle crimson light. The _vwoom_ as she swings it in a short, brutal arc, and the _shhhhck_ as she deactivates it.

His vision briefly grays as he fights to retain consciousness through the pain; her expression doesn’t change. “I would suggest you get yourself to the medbay, Captain. Or do not. Your choice. The rest of you are dismissed.”

She pivots sharply and disappears into her quarters, the door whispering closed behind her.

 _Then / Korriban:_  
“Captain.”

Quinn pauses next to the shuttle ramp. “My lord?”

Lysch holds out a datacard. “Now that our business with Baras is concluded, I have procured you a posting that is expressly tailored to your strengths. A command. It will allow you to serve the Empire to the best of your ability.”

He takes the datacard, an unspoken question in his eyes.

“You will wake up every day knowing I secured this for you, Captain. Knowing that you owe me. But I know you will perform marvelously.” Her gaze sharpens. "After all, you served Baras quite well when he got you a plum posting, did you not?“ 

“Yes, my lord.”

“As you may imagine, I expect the same measure of loyalty you showed him.” 

“Yes, my lord.”

He briefly wonders if there’s anything worse than the Wrath’s mercy.

 _Now / Dromund Kaas:_  
Quinn flexes his cybernetic hand, listens to the creak of the leather.

He should be grateful she didn’t kill him.

On some days, he is.


	49. Persistence (Lysch/Qadit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Empire's Wrath has no time for interpersonal relations. This does not dissuade some people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place sometime after chapter 40 or so of Chaos & Opportunity

Qadit Rokimuchar - Darth Ainyar, outreach coordinator in the Bureau of Cultural Expansion - can hardly miss the Empire’s Wrath, an intimidating fixture at the Citadel when she is not out on the Empire’s business. They’ve had conversations in the caf line, and lately, more often than not Qadit finds her attention wandering to the near-reclusive Sith. 

She wonders what makes her smile, and sets about wooing her.

When her first attempt arrives, an artfully arranged bouquet of some of the Botanical Corps’ best creations, Lysch assumes Kryn put them up to it, summoning her wayward sister to her office to have words with Kryn about her questionable sense of humor.

Kryn didn’t have anything to do with it, of course, but she assumes it’s because this person lost a bet to someone and puts out several feelers around the Citadel to find out who it could be.

Lysch beckons angrily at the bouquet, which really is quite stunning. “Why do I want the corpses of plants?” 

”Those are flowers, Lysch,” Kryn explains. “Flowwwwwww-ers. Normal people call them flowers. Really, _corpses of plants_. How are you even my sister?“

Lysch calls Kryn every time Qadit tries something new. 

“Why would I go spend credits to eat at a restaurant when I have rations at my apartment?” she asks, grumpy. (”Because no one in their right mind likes eating rations, Lysch.”)

“Who on earth sits around drinking caf and watching people walk around?” This invitation baffles her even more. (”Just about everyone. If you interacted with the Empire beyond sticking lightsabers in people, you’d know this.”)

“Two tickets for a trip to Zeltros, what an utterly frivolous waste of time,” she snarls, brandishing said offending tickets in Kryn’s face. (Kryn chucks a credit chip at Lysch and snatches those up with a quickness. “Yes, this one is simply _terrible_. I’ll take them off your hands.”)

“Why do I care about this woman’s bloodline?” (Kryn is done with Lysch’s mulishness at this point. ”Oh, honestly, Lysch, even I understand the importance of bloodlines to Purebloods and I’m a ‘filthy alien’. Now you’re just playing dumb so you don’t have to deal with the fact that someone has taken leave of their senses and developed an interest in you. She’s showing you she isn’t some no-count lordling from a worthless family.”)

Finally, after over a month of slow and cautious attempts that aren’t exactly _rebuffed_ , if not welcomed outright, Qadit - a tall, slim Pureblood with wide amber eyes and elaborately braided ebony hair - turns up at Lysch’s austere office at the Citadel with a stubborn look on her face.

Lysch notices Qadit’s hand doesn’t leave her saber hilt as the office door closes behind her.

This raises her in Lysch’s estimation.

“My lord Wrath, you make vying for your affection a very difficult matter indeed, perhaps even more difficult than the elaborate courtship rituals favored by the more traditionally minded among us. Though if you would prefer, we can perform the Rite of Strength and the Rite of Knowledge.” Qadit risks a tentative smile. “I have been training, in case that is what you wish to do.”

“You would lose, Qadit,” Lysch says without hesitation. (Lysch sees most of the world in terms of battles to win or lose.)

Qadit smiles wider. “Of course. You are the Wrath; I would expect no less. It would be up to you to decide if my _effort_ was worthy of your time.”

Lysch falls silent, tapping her chin thoughtfully. That Qadit is willing to go toe to toe with her impresses her greatly, and she _is_ quite aesthetically pleasing. The words are out of her mouth before she can convince herself to just send Qadit away. “And if I were to do so?”

“Then we would decide on an activity we both find enjoyable, and do it together. There is a weapons exhibit at the military history museum that I’ve heard is quite interesting. If you prefer something simpler, Clechad Caf has just released their summer drinks; we could sit on the upper veranda and enjoy the summer weather, though I confess I can’t quite picture you doing so. My family has a box at the Kaas Stadium.” Qadit shrugs, turning her palms up. “I would let you decide; you seem far more choosy than I.” 

(Later, Kryn will tell Lysch, “she was being diplomatic instead of calling you a picky asshole, which is what you were actually being. Lucky for you I’m here to point out where you’re going wrong.”)

“The weapons exhibit has caught my attention,” Lysch says, and if Qadit hears the hesitation in her voice she doesn’t mention it. “I suppose we could see it together.” Her eyes narrow. “But I do not do romance: hand-holding, cor-” She stops, coughs. “ _Flowers_ , things of that nature. They are silly and frivolous. My duty will always come first and if you cannot accept that, then we should stop before anything starts.” 

(Kryn almost spits out her drink at this when Lysch tells her about it later. ”Lysch, she asked you to go see a museum exhibit, not to marry her, and you gave her that speech? And she’s still going with you? She _does_ like you.”)

“Of course.” Qadit shifts her weight to her other foot. “As you are aware, cultural mores dictate that Sith are equal in … matters such as this. What shall I call you when we are speaking privately? I will, of course, continue to address you as befits your station in official and public venues.”

“You may call me Lysch when it is just the two of us.”

Qadit nods. “I appreciate this gesture, Lysch. I must return to my office, but I’ll contact you later to work out the details of our outing?”

“I will look forward to it.” This isn’t entirely sincere, if only because Lysch faces all manner of interpersonal relations with some disdain.

“Until we speak again, my lord Wrath.” Qadit bows, then swiftly exits Lysch’s office.


	50. Soulmate AU - Colors (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for a soulmate AU that says you only start seeing color when you meet your soulmate. Not everyone is excited about who the universe has chosen to pair them with.

**Marr**  
As the decades pass, his vision remaining stubbornly monochrome, Marr accepts that he needs nothing so frivolous as a soulmate, that his duty has been and will always be bound to the Empire. By the time he reaches his fiftieth year, he hardly even notices it anymore, and by now - his sixty-second - it never crosses his mind.

Today, the ordinary monotony has been broken up by Thanaton dragging his own troubles before the Council. Marr regards him, standing proud and angry in the center of the Council chambers, his voice impassive. “The question stands: why has this apprentice, this child, proved impossible for you to kill?”

The “child” in question, who is not a child at all but a woman of nearly thirty, is an utter slip of a Miraluka with fiery red hair and a nearly permanent smirk on her face. She whirls to face Marr, irritation plain on her fine, delicate features as she scowls directly at him. “Child? Has it occurred to any of you that I might be just that good?”

Before he can answer, something that had been nagging at the back of his mind finally grabs his attention.

Her hair is red. 

His attention is drawn completely away from the drama at hand as it plays out, and for the first time in years he finds himself distracted from his duty. There’s no doubt she’s strong in the Force, but he wonders what she’s like, if she’s studious and driven like he is.

He wonders if the same thing has happened for her. There are stories, of course, of soulmates not connecting at the right time. These stories rarely end prettily, and he’s reluctant to give in to the burgeoning excitement if it is destined for failure. Of course, he can’t ask her. Well, he could, but he has his duty to uphold. Time will tell, he supposes.

She kills Thanaton, something that only mildly surprises him. And then she looks at him, after he promotes her to a seat on the Council, and smirks directly at him. “We’ll see how long it lasts, this co-ruling.” Everything out of her mouth before she flounces out of the Council chambers is insubordination of a sort he hasn’t tolerated in decades.

The universe certainly has a sense of humor; apparently his soulmate is a mouthy brat.

**Kryn**  
It isn’t until she’s standing in front of the Old Man Sith Club that Kryn realizes that for the first time in her twenty-nine tumultuous years, she can see color, can really see it, not the flickers she’d see before that always faded away. The vibrant purple of her lightsaber. The sedate gray-black of the stone floor. The bright red accents on the grumpy man’s armor.

He really is a piece of work, that one. Calling her a child, not even bothering to give her the recognition due for her swift and effortless destruction of no less than a Council member. He even sounds annoyed that he has to follow their own traditions and give her the seat so recently vacated by her unworthy opponent. Blah blah something something _we’re all equals_.

_You’ll never be my equal_ , she wants to say, knowing that even though she doesn’t say it aloud, the defiance shows on her face. _You’ve already written me off. I love it when I’m underestimated_. “We’ll see how long it lasts, this co-ruling,” she finally says, with just the right amount of smirk, and is rewarded when his shoulders tense even more than they already are. “If that’s all, I’ll be off. I really must see to my new office and my legion of adoring followers.”

Ignoring his irritated response, she turns sharply and saunters out of the Council chambers, wondering which of them it is, and thinks back, trying to pinpoint when it happened. It was ….

It doesn’t occur to her until she’s in the elevator, and she claps a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp.

Oh _no_.

The universe certainly has a sense of humor; apparently her soulmate is a humorless jerk.


	51. Don't You Have to be Stupid Somewhere Else? (Kryn & Ravage)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place shortly after Kryn is put on the Council.

Darth Marr is sure that at one point, he was selected to sit on the Council, a collection of Sith renowned for their abilities and chosen to guide the course of the Empire.

He’s _not_ sure when that job was exchanged for “running a daycare.”

Darth Nox - and there isn’t a day goes by that he doesn’t in some small way regret ever putting that mouthy, insubordinate asshole on the Council - is sitting sideways in her seat, dangling her legs off one of the armrests, and grinning at Darth Ravage, who looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust. 

“We don’t need you here, you know. We actually want to finish conducting what business we have and get on with governing the Empire.”

She clucks her tongue. “Come now, Ravage,” she says, sounding most disappointed. “You need someone to read the big words to you, and I’m here to provide that exceedingly valuable service.”

“Don’t you have to be stupid somewhere else, Nox?” 

It’s a surprisingly artless comeback; she must really be getting under his skin. Not that Marr is shocked; Darth Nox’s singular overarching talent is being as cheerfully obnoxious as possible, and she doesn’t seem about to hit her peak anytime soon.

She makes a show out of checking her chrono, and then her schedule. “Not until four! We can spend _all day_ together.”

For a brief moment, Marr considers just letting Ravage do what he clearly wants to do, which is beat the nerf shit out of Nox in the Council chamber. However, they _do_ have business to conduct, and he really needs to get back to his office and take something for this growing headache. 


	52. A Kiss (Lysch/Qadit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysch is terrible at this dating stuff. Qadit takes matters into her own hands.

Qadit has been patient, and waited, and kept telling herself that when the moment is right, Lsych will do what Qadit’s been thinking about this entire date. But here she is, turning away on Qadit’s doorstep.

Qadit didn’t get where she is today by passively accepting everything that happens to and around her, that is for damn sure.

Even as her mind yells that she’s courting a swift destruction, she grabs Lysch’s arm and pulls her back, deftly sliding one hand around the Wrath’s waist as they collide. 

“You dare?” Lysch growls, hand falling to one of her lightsabers. 

Despite her tone, she’s made no effort to pull away, and Qadit’s eyes drop to Lysch’s mouth, then lift back to Lysch’s eyes. “I dare. Are you stopping me?”

They stare at each other, a mere breath separating them. 

“No.” 

Lysch has barely got the single syllable out before Qadit’s mouth finds hers, driving Lysch back into the wall as Qadit’s hand tightens on the small of Lysch’s back, the kiss full of unleashed heat and need. “Do you torment me so on purpose, Lysch?” she murmurs when she takes a breath.

“Does saying yes mean you’ll continue to kiss me like this?”

Qadit’s eyes widen. “I would kiss you like this anytime you ask. You needn’t drive me mad for that.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”


	53. Mistletoe (Shae/Praven)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shae gets a kiss under the mistletoe. Certain parties aren't too happy about it.

Mistletoe is one of those illicit things that turn up in the Temple every Life Day, and is mostly overlooked by the senior Jedi as long as it’s a harmless holiday tradition and nothing more. Shae, of course, could care less about this sort of thing, and besides, the majority of her peers at the Temple give her a wide berth anyway, since that “Imperial spy” rumor refuses to die.

Thus, she’s quite surprised when Arost, a tall, broad-shouldered knight with lovely hazel eyes and a profusion of curly black hair, lingers in the doorway, smiles brightly at her, and points upward. “Ashaeft, I seem to have caught you under the mistletoe.”

Confusion briefly flickers across Shae’s features. “Did … did you mean to?” She turns and looks behind her, but no, she’s the only one there.

“Of course I did.” His smile turns a little shy. “I’m a little in awe of how _good_ you are at everything, really. You’re intimidating, and I thought that maybe, well, just that -” He scoops up her hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. “Anyway, I’m babbling and I’ll let you go, you were on your way out the door. Happy Life Day, Ashaeft.” Arost turns - but not before Shae notices a faint flush on his cheeks - and strides away down the hallway, leaving her staring after him.

“I thought Jedi weren’t supposed to engage in such activities,” a dry voice says behind her, startling her out of her thoughts.

“Oh! What?” Shae turns, coming face to face with Praven, glad he can’t tell how her face is burning. “What? Don’t be silly. It’s just a Life Day thing. The masters see no point in trying to ban something so insignificant.” 

“Interesting. Because anytime you and I spend too much time together, those are the same masters you use as an excuse to run away.”

Is she imagining things, or does he sounds _disgruntled_ about all this?

“Praven, are you _jealous_?”

“No!”

Shae arches one brow ridge, the barest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“I’m _not_.” He stalks past her, fully aware that she isn’t buying this load of bantha shit he’s trying to sell her. “I just don’t like how hypocritical Jedi are.”

Shae puts out an arm and stops him in the doorway, pointing upward. When his put-upon air doesn’t change, she shakes her head and presses a slow kiss to the back of his hand. “You’re not going to still be mad tomorrow, are you?” She straightens, though she doesn’t release his hand. 

“I ….” He should take his hand back; they’re right on the periphery of a rather large party and they’re in the middle of the Temple but her hand is warm around his and she just kissed him. Wait, she’d asked him something, but he’ll be damned if he can remember what it is.

She takes a step back, releasing him. “Happy Life Day, Praven.” And then she’s gone, before he can say anything else.”


	54. Surprise! (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe that isn't how Darth Marr would have chosen to celebrate his birthday.

“You did _what_?!” Vowrawn exclaims as his office door shuts behind him and Kryn. “He’s going to blame it on me! How did you even manage it?”

Kryn grins widely. “Bryasere has apparently given up on keeping me out of his office. I simply showed up with a stack of official-looking datapads and she didn’t even question my oversize bag.”

“So right now ….”

“He’s either wading through the roomful of balloons or has triggered the confetti cannon my sister sent me,” Kryn says, checking her chrono. “And then there’s the -”

Vowrawn’s door slides open, revealing a Darth Marr positively exuding barely constrained ire. A popped balloon hangs unnoticed from one fearsome spike, and a pile of confetti slides from his shoulder, showering his boots as it flutters to the floor.

“Happy birthday?” Kryn says, her voice strangled as she tries to choke down laughter. 

“Which one of you _miscreants_ ,” Marr forces between gritted teeth, “is responsible for this?”


	55. Making Jadzainaj (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "cooking together"

“As I recall, you said I’m not _allowed_ in here. Something about an Imperial decree banning me.”

Kryn, petulant, is lingering at the periphery of the kitchen, arms folded across her chest, and Marr has to step all the way into the pantry to keep from laughing aloud. Kryn is cheerfully snarky almost to a fault, but mentioning her near-complete inability in the kitchen is practically guaranteed to earn him a scowl or, like now, a bout of pouting totally unsuited to both her easygoing nature and her station in the highest echelon of the Empire.

He backs out of the pantry, arms full, and taps the door panel with his elbow. “I did. However, _jadzainaj_ requires two people in order to make it properly. I haven’t had it in years, unless I went out to eat.” He gives her a disarming smile. “Bring the meat over? It’s in the fridge.”

She does, grumbling as she sets the plate on the counter. He sorts through the ingredients, pulling aside a few of them before he extracts a large bowl from a nearby cupboard and taps the top section of the recipe. “This is for the dough. Simple ingredients, easy mixing, no actual cooking. Can you make this while I start the filling?”

Kryn studies it for a long moment. “I … can probably do this.”

“I know you can.”

She only asks for his help once, and by the time he’s finished the filling, Kryn is just setting the covered bowl of dough into the fridge. She consults her section of the recipe. “One hour for both?” When he nods, she grins. “Do you need a suggestion to help pass the time?”

“I’d be willing to entertain your ideas.”

An hour … or so … later finds them back downstairs, looking at a large bowl of cooled spiced meat filling and an array of sectioned dough. Marr sets a large, shallow tray off to the side, then stands behind Kryn. “This will actually be easier because you’re -”

She cocks her head to the side but doesn’t turn to look at him. “I’m what? Go ahead. Finish that.”

Maybe tweaking her about her cooking ability _and_ about being short in the same day isn’t the most tactically sound decision. “You’re the perfect person to make _jadzainaj_ with, of course.” He kisses the top of her head, heedless of her damp hair. “Scoop some of the filling onto the center of that first piece of dough there.” She does, and he reaches around her. “Now I twist these like this .. all right, hold them in place? … and then the rest of these. And that’s one done.”

Kryn deposits it on the tray, looking at the elegantly twisted dough. “They’re pretty.” She’s already putting filling onto another one. “But we’re going to have a _lot_ of them.”

“It’s a recipe meant to be shared. We should have enough for us, Vowrawn, Vera, and at least your three sisters on Dromund Kaas.” They fall into an easy rhythm, and soon the first tray is full; he sets it in the oven as Kryn pulls another tray out of the cabinet. 


	56. Corellia (Kryn/Hesker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, like, 90% of what the inquisitor says when she’s not being a snotty dickhead sounds like flirting.
> 
> Kryn, being the type of person she is, is very likely to go “so, how about a tumble” to almost anyone who catches her eye (sorry, Cheketta, you tick a lot of the boxes but too bad he’s a Pub overrides them), albeit in a very casual, “no, do not feel obligated" sort of way. It helps that she’s excellent at reading people and usually has a pretty good idea if they’re going to say yes or not.
> 
> So Kryn and Hesker flirt a bit ( … a lot) before the last (main) battle on Corellia, have a tryst during the celebration afterward, and probably rekindle it (briefly) on Ilum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kryn is kryptonite to big military dudes. I love it.

[1]  
“Lord Kallig, you requested a word?”

Kryn looks up from the datapad she’s reading, the latest reports on battles across Corellia. “General Hesker.” She stands, following him through double doors into his operations center, regarding him with more than a little passing interest. Hesker, a bona fide Imperial war hero, has caught her attention in more ways than one since their first meeting; she’s taken great pains to keep things professional, but with her imminent departure, she’d be kicking herself if she didn’t at least say something. “Your shift has concluded?”

“Officially, yes.” He settles into one of the high-backed office chairs, motions at another and waits for her to sit. “I do spend most of my time here, however.” He regards her curiously, more openly than he’d normally scrutinize a Sith. She’s tiny, with flaming red hair and an ever-present smirk, and doesn’t exude seriousness the way so many others of her order do. “What can I do for you?”

Kryn gives him a deliberate once-over, gaze slipping from his carefully styled wheat-blond hair to his dark blue eyes, from his square jawline to the broadness of his shoulders and the trimness of his waist, noting how the deep red of the Imperial Guard uniform complements his coloring exceedingly well. “Hopefully, the battle for Corellia will be over soon, and when that happens, I’ll be on my way. I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask you to bed at least one time.” She holds up a hand as he opens his mouth. “Strictly for pleasure, no strings, no pressure. If you decline, it’ll be as if I never offered.”

His expression grows thoughtful. “Was I so obvious?”

“Hmm?”

He stands and pulls her to her feet, immediately realizing they’ll have to do some adjusting for height for this to work. “You walked into my command center a few days ago smelling of battle, of ozone and fire, of _victory_ , and have lingered at the back of my thoughts ever since.” He offers silent thanks that her chosen attire leaves her neck bare as he bends to place a slow, warm kiss against her pulse. “You are not a woman that is easily forgotten.” Another, against her jaw. “I had considered requesting to speak privately with you, but didn’t want to overstep my bounds.”

“As long as people won’t notice that your door is locked for ….” She trails off, grins up at him, arches one eyebrow. “Awhile, I’m assuming?”

“That’s the plan.”

She slips one arm around his waist, vaguely motions in the direction of the door, pulls herself flush against him when she hears the lock engage. “Then by all means, overstep your bounds.”

[2]  


“How did you know I’d even agree to this?”

Kryn combs sweat-darkened wheat blond hair off Hesker’s brow. “The Force, naturally,” she says as a smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. “The Force is the answer to all things, Andrus. The might of the Sith. Our success on Corellia.” She brushes the curve of his lower lip with her thumb, a teasing lilt in her words. “Your acceptance of my offer, and no small number of things that have driven you half-mad this evening.”

“You can’t just use ‘the Force’ as the answer for everything.” He doesn’t quite succeed in stifling his smile. “After all, no small number of those things were due to you, not the Force. And I do believe I was not the only one driven half-mad this evening, yes?”

She grins in full, wide and not-quite-innocent, and pulls him down to her. “I don’t quite remember. Perhaps you ought to remind me.”

[3]  
Andrus stares balefully into the mirror, glowering at his stubbornly uncooperative hair. As if that weren’t enough, he’d damn near fallen over getting dressed (instead stumbling across the room and falling on the bed), one of the straps on his boot broke, and he’d whacked his head on the still-open cabinet door as he’d straightened from inspecting and swearing at his boot strap.

What in blazes is going _on_ this morning?

The only saving grace to this entire fiasco is that Darth Nox disappeared into the shower shortly before he got up and thus missed discovering that apparently General Andrus Hesker, hero of the Empire, can’t fucking _dress himself_.

Come to think of it, maybe this is just the universe righting things after the extraordinary streak of good luck that was her turning up in his office last night, easy smile and cheerfully bawdy suggestion on her lips after weeks of sidelong glances and not enough time to do anything about them.

Jaw tight with determination, he picks up the gel … only to fumble it. It drops straight into the sink full of water, soaking the front of his uniform.

Fuck today. He’s calling in sick to the war.

“Are you having a hard time this morning, General?”

Nox, gloriously naked, leans nonchalantly against the ‘fresher doorway set in the far wall, braiding still-damp tresses and looking far too amused for his liking.

“How long have you been standing there?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

She bites her lower lip, though she can’t quite hide her amusement. “Longer than you’d like, I think. You appear to be far better at removing clothing than putting it on.” This time she doesn’t bother to camouflage her smirk. “I find that a plus, personally, but I suppose the moffs you have to meet with might not. Would you like some assistance?”

“I suppose that depends.” He might as well salvage _something_ from this catastrophe. “Is this assistance rendered before or after you get dressed?”

Nox grins outright. “I’m amenable to either, but I do believe you have a meeting this morning and are running short on time. We hardly have time to wait for _me_ to get dressed, don’t you think?” 


	57. Ilum (Kryn/Hesker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's always nice to see a familiar face when you're getting ready to go into battle to defend the Empire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few other ideas for this pairing. Don't know when I'll ever get them written, but maybe someday.

[1]  
Even before Kryn rounds the corner into the war room deep below the surface of Ilum, one voice stands out and a smile rises unbidden to her lips. She and Hesker have kept in occasional contact since Corellia, though their one night affair has sadly never had an encore, and she finds she’s eager to see him. His gaze immediately shifts to her, lingering as she strides into the room and up to the war table. “Gentlemen. Let’s begin.”

Regus begins to talk, and Kryn devotes half her attention to the briefing and half to idly fantasizing about deep blue eyes heavy-lidded with lust, weapon-callused hands wrapped around her thighs, exquisite pleasures whose memory still sends the occasional shiver down her spine. She’s pulled entirely into the meeting when the holocom flickers to life, displaying a Chiss major bearing news of Malgus’ invasion of Ilum.

It’s swiftly decided that the best course of action is to steal one a fighter and take it back to Malgus’ stealthed base. “Find me a pilot, and I’ll secure that ship,” Kryn says, though she knows good and well Hesker is an excellent and decorated pilot.

“I would be proud to fly you into battle against the Betrayer,” he says without a moment’s hesitation.

Is she imagining the heat in the look he gives her?

She hopes not.

“It’s been too long since we worked together, General Hesker. I can think of no one better to bring on this mission.”

He inclines his head ever so slightly, though his eyes don’t leave her face. “I will go prepare my ship.” 

[2]  
The shuttle door closes behind them and Hesker disappears into the cockpit, telling someone on the other end of the comm that he’s finishing his pre-flight checks and doesn’t wish to be disturbed. He reappears in the doorway, a small smile on his face.

Kryn takes a step toward him. “Andrus.”

“Kryn.” His smile widens and he closes the space between them with long, graceful strides. “We haven’t much time.” He lifts her hand, bending to press a kiss to her wrist. Her pulse jumps as his lips touch her skin. “Long enough for a kiss befitting a woman of your stature … my lord.”

“I thought we agreed that there’s no rank when it’s just us.” She sighs and melts into his embrace, reaching up to twine her arms around his neck as his mouth claims hers, his tongue easily parting pliant lips as the kiss deepens, lengthens.

His chrono beeps and he takes half a step back, and who could fault him if he sounds a little breathless? “If we tarry, questions will be asked.”

“Andrus,” and how she adores saying his name, the feel of it in her mouth, “I know we agreed after Corellia that we wouldn’t … but I ….”

“I don’t remember any such agreement.” The lie comes easily, his face carefully arranged into seriousness. “And I have an excellent memory.”

A slow smile lights her face. “Far be it from me to argue with such a preeminent hero of the Empire.”

She settles into the copilot seat and they take off, winging high above Ilum’s frozen landscape. The battle lights the distance, growing brighter as Hesker touches down as close as he dares to drop her. She takes a deep breath and stands, pausing before she activates the door. “Will I see you tonight? I confess my thoughts have often strayed to you since that evening we spent together.”

“As mine have strayed to you, more often than is proper.” He follows her, bends to kiss her one last time. “Fight well, return victorious, and we will celebrate on Ilum as we did on Corellia.”

Kryn loves everyone she finds in her bed as long as they’re together, and Andrus Hesker is no exception. She holds nothing back, knows each time may be the only time, the last time. She knows too well how easily someone can be taken away, how even all her prodigious power cannot deny the will of the Force, the passing of life, and so she loves each one with all - or nearly all - of her self.

It’s only right.

“I will think of you in the quieter moments,” she says, cupping his face with one hand. “And would have no other watching my back. We will celebrate our triumph this night, with all the stars in Ilum’s sky looking down on us.”

[3]  
The end is in sight: generators destroyed, bunker rising out of the ice, and Kryn is already thinking of warm spiked beverages and warmer affection when Hesker shouts across her comm, warning of his impending crash.

The silence that follows wraps black tentacles around her heart, drops like a rock into the pit of her stomach, and it takes all of her willpower to not yell his name and command an answer, to press on toward Malgus’ second in command and the mission objective.

Darth Serevin brags about shooting him down.

Darth Serevin pays with his life, shock plain on his face as fury radiates from Kryn, as she unleashes endless torrents of lightning, as she drives him back step by step until he collapses in a ruined, smoking heap.

Kryn spits on Serevin’s corpse before she deigns to address Serevin’s pet Voss.

Talsa-Ko’s words are forgotten as a comm signal beeps, followed by Hesker, his voice scratchy in Kryn’s ear and still the best sound in the galaxy. “Do you read me?”

“I knew you’d survive,” she says, and her voice betrays none of the relief threatening to buckle her knees, none of the adrenaline making her hands shake. She calmly issues orders to imprison the captives, exchanges status reports, sets in motion the process of mopping up the remnants of battle, then orders him back to the base for medical attention.

[4]  
That night Kryn, bearing two warm mugs of cocoa very generously spiked with alcohol, finds Hesker in the medbay. One eye is nearly swollen shut, surrounded by an angry purple bruise. Cuts and scratches cover his face and hands, and one arm is held immobile in a sling as monitors gently beep in the background. She smiles down at him and sets the cocoa on the nearby end table, though the cheerful expression is still tinged with worry as she perches on the side of his bed. “You missed our victory celebration, General.”

“And I am exceedingly sorry, my lord.” He lifts her hand to his lips, brushes a kiss onto her knuckles. “I hope you can forgive me.”

“Oh, Andrus.” She combs her fingertips into his thick, wheat-blond hair. “I thought you were gone. Of course I forgive you.” She braces one hand on his other side and leans close. “May I kiss you? I don’t want to hurt you.”

He shifts to the side, leaving her just enough room to join him on the bed. “You don’t even need to ask,” he murmurs. “A kiss from you is worth a little pain.” 

Kryn whispers his name again as her lips meet his, carefully stretching herself flush against him, scattering kisses on the corners of his mouth, along his jaw, down his neck. “Shall we bust you out of here? Let me heal you, Andrus,” she says, resting her hand on his sling. “At least your arm, and your aches and pains.”

Hesker chuckles, resting his free hand on the small of her back. He’s missed her, even knowing they are never destined for more than these occasional trysts and he really has no right to miss her at all. “You just want to take advantage of me, I think, and feel guilty about doing so when I’m injured.”

“Never.” She kisses him again, slow and searing. “I still will, even if we go straight back to your room and you go to sleep alone.”

He bites his lip, stifling a groan as she shifts against him. “A jest, lover, nothing more. As though I’d prefer to sleep alone when you could be at my side.”

Force healing is relatively rare, and it never feels the same. When Kryn rests her hands on his arm, her brow furrowed in concentration, his uninjured eye widens at the jolt of energy that rushes through his arm. She grows pale after a time, finally sighs. “Oh, that took more out of me than I expected. I don’t have much of an aptitude for healing. Small things, bruises, flesh wounds, things like that. But your arm should be good. Just take it easy for a few days. No waving weapons around.” She smiles weakly. “Still have quite the shiner, though.”

“Stubborn.” He slips his arm out of the sling, slowly stands. “Come on. We’ll limp back to my quarters together.” Luckily, he’s not far from the medcenter, and the hallways are mostly deserted at this late hour; everyone is still in the cantina celebrating today’s victory. The door whispers closed behind them, and he motions at his bed. “It won’t be the most exciting night we’ve ever spent.”

She makes a vaguely disgusted noise as she collapses in an ungainly heap on top of the blanket. “You say that as though I’m going to leave if you’re not bending my leg over my head and giving me continual orgasms.” Boosting herself up into a sitting position, she folds her legs under her and pats her lap. “Come here.”

He does, of course, settling gingerly on the bed and resting his head in her lap. “Tell me about the battle, Kryn.”

She’s been waiting for this question; she’s only surprised it took this long. Her words are quiet, murmured as she idly combs her fingers through his hair, watching his eyes grow heavy and finally close, his breathing deep and even.


	58. Mistletoe (Vette/Jaesa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vette & Jaesa are two of my favorites. They're so cute.

Pierce loiters near the doorway, watching Vette and Jaesa finish putting the cards away after their game night. The two link hands, and Jaesa is just about out of the living room when Vette pulls on Jaesa’s hand, stopping her.

“Ah ah, what do you do with mistletoe?”

Jaesa raises an eyebrow. “What mistletoe?”

Pierce clears his throat; Jaesa looks up and grins when she sees the sprig of green pinched between Pierce’s thumb and forefinger. “Ahhh, _that_ mistletoe.”

“You know, on second thought,” Vette says, going on tiptoe to pluck the mistletoe out of Pierce’s hand, “we’ll just, ah, take this with us to our room, cause I have some ideas about kisses. Thanks, Meathead.”


	59. Naughty or Nice (Kryn & Vowrawn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kryn and Vowrawn are kindred spirits when it comes to making mischief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another entry in the "Darth Nox trolls the shit out of Darth Marr" archives. For the christmas advent prompt list entry of the same name. I did a terrible job keeping up with this prompt list, I think I only got four done. xD

[1]  
Vowrawn’s smile is very much that of a predator who knows his prey cannot escape. “It has been a full decade since you have attended one of my parties. You _promised_ me that at the very least, you’d attend one Life Day party per decade.”

It takes a great deal of Marr’s not-inconsiderable restraint to not simply bang his head on his desk until he loses consciousness. While he pictures the sweet release of oblivion, he puts forth the appearance of staring impassively at his oldest friend on the Council.

_Damn._

He had promised that, mostly hoping Vowrawn would forget about it by the time the deadline rolled around. His hopes had been raised these last few years, when Vowrawn hadn’t even invited him. This sudden interest likely means Vowrawn is up to something, has been saving it for just such an occasion when Marr either has to break his word or put up with the bacchanalian display that is the hallmark of _all_ of Vowrawn’s parties. “Very well.”

Vowrawn grins outright, yet another sign that he has Marr right where he wants him. “I’ve already sent you the information. I won’t bother asking if you’re going to wear something different for a change. See you on Felday!”

[2]  
The party, of course, is exactly the sort of loud, drunken revelry that Marr expected, full of Sith he has no interest in knowing and Vowrawn’s ever changing rotation of lovers; Marr long ago stopped bothering to learn their names, because by the time he did Vowrawn had already moved on to another (or, more often, multiple others). There’s carol singing and a present exchange (and clearly Vowrawn didn’t expect Marr to actually come, given that he was the odd man out … not that Marr has a problem with this).

Just when Marr thinks he’ll get out of this relatively unscathed, Vowrawn summons everyone into the salon, a worrisome smile on his face. “Now that we’ve eaten our fill, and had more than a few drinks, it’s time for the _entertainment_!”

Music flows from unseen speakers, and the doors on either side of the salon open, admitting two slim, lithe dancers, both with completely veiled faces. They weave through the crowd, surveying each of the guests, before exchanging a brief look. One of them, a tiny woman with knee-length blonde hair, comes swaying right up to Marr.

“What a priiiiiiiiize!” she coos in a breathy voice. “Vowrawn, you didn’t tell us we’d be graced with such a ….” She stops, stretching out her hand as if to touch Marr, though she stops short of actually doing so. “We can’t let _you_ out of our grasp so quickly. Come along, my lord.” 

She holds out her hand, waggles it when he doesn’t take it. “You’re not going to be a spoilsport, are you?” Withdrawing her hand, she snaps a mock salute. “I promise, it’s just a bit of good, harmless fun.”

Marr stares at Vowrawn, who shrugs and doesn’t even attempt to look remotely sorry, then stands. “ _No_ fun with Vowrawn is ‘good, harmless fun,’ but very well. I will go along with this charade … for now.”

“How delightful!” The blonde woman claps and holds out her hand, though she doesn’t seem surprised, or even remotely fazed, when he doesn’t take it, instead flicking his fingers at her to indicate she should go wherever it is she’s going. She leads him to a chair the other dancer has set in the center of the room, and waits until he sits down before dropping rather unceremoniously into his lap. 

He is going to kill Vowrawn.

His increasingly detailed fantasies of hurling his grinning friend off the top of the Citadel are interrupted when the blonde cuddles up next to him and leans close to his ear. “So, have you been naughty … or nice this year, my lord?”

[3]  
A still-smirking Kryn hands the blonde wig back to Vowrawn hours later, after everyone else has left. “Thank you, Vowrawn, for this opportunity. It’s a damn shame I couldn’t see his face, but he tensed up like he was expecting to get shanked and didn’t relax that whole time.” The smirk gets wider. “Not during the rundown of utterly fake gossipy ‘bad behavior,’ not during the dance, not during _any_ of it. Are you sure you haven’t put a death mark on your own head?”

Vowrawn laughs. “I’ve put my affairs in order, just in case. Luckily, we won’t be back at the Citadel for a few days, and I may just find business to take me off-planet for a few more, to really give him time to cool down. I know he’s a dreadful stick in the mud, and I really oughtn’t have fun at his expense, but by this point in our relationship I’m sure he expects it.” His eyes sparkle with mischief. “I still can’t believe you were willing to go along with this.”

“Pass on a chance to yank the chain of the most boring, obnoxious man in the entire Empire?” Kryn gives Vowrawn a withering look. “Not in a million years. Though if he ever finds out that was me, he’ll likely kill me.”

Vowrawn strokes his chin, though he doesn’t look overly concerned. “I’d have disagreed with you if you hadn’t kissed his forehead … or at least, an approximation of where his forehead is. That was a master stroke, truly.”

“Well, I’ll let you get to your personal entertainment,” Kryn says, draping her gauzy, sparkly outfit over one arm. “I’ll see you after Life Day.”

Vowrawn proffers a bow. “May yours be full of light and merriment and just the right amount of misconduct, Nox.” 


	60. Caroling (Havoc Squad)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Havoc Squad goes to spread Life Day cheer.

“Sir, are you -”

Raitlia’s eyes narrow to green slits as she regards her husband. “Jorgan, if you ask me if I’m sure about this one more time, I’m sending you and Vik on a mission all the way across the galaxy in a two person ship.”

Tanno looks wounded as Yuun laughs. “Why you gotta punish _me_ for the XO being a jackass, sir?”

“I, for one, think this is a fantastic idea, sir,” Elara says, eyes sparkling. “After what happened with General Garza, our reputation has taken quite the ding, and caroling at the hospital is an excellent use of our time and resources to rectify that.”

Aric sighs. “I can agree with that much.”

“But?” Raitlia folds her arms across her chest, obscuring the pattern of dancing Wookiees.

“But do we have to wear the stupid sweaters to do it? Boots and utes is covered in the uniform regulations, sir, and it’s pretty clear that ugly sweaters are not part of the regulations -”

Raitlia raises one eyebrow.

“Aaaaand since you’re our commanding officer and love the sweaters, of course I’m more than happy to flagrantly break regulations for you.” Aric sighs. “I suppose if you go to all the trouble to have a sweater made for Forex, I suppose I can deal with it for one afternoon.”

“Good.” Raitlia steps back and surveys Havoc Squad with all the seriousness of a yearly uniform inspection. “Our mission today is to bring cheer to these kids, so get cheery! Aric, quit scowling. Tanno, don’t be changing the lyrics this time, and Forex, stop encouraging him to do so; Life Day carols aren’t about blowing things up and killing Imps. Elara and Yuun, you two are flawless. Move out!” 


	61. Hot Cocoa (Shae/Praven)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot cocoa is just a necessary part of the season, and it tastes even better if you drink it outside while you watch the snow fall. If you _happen_ to need to sit closer together for warmth, well, that's just being smart about the weather, right?

Fat white flakes drift past the large common room windows, and Praven can tell he’s far from the only one not focusing on what he’s supposed to be studying. The room, normally still and silent, is full of murmured conversations, and nearly everyone has taken a seat where they can see out the massive transparisteel panes. He starts when his messenger notification chimes.

_Meet me in the usual place? Wear boots; the snow is deep._  
_Shae_

Now what is she up to?

In short order he’s retrieved his coat, scarf, and boots and is crunching through the snow blanketing the forest behind the Temple. The “usual place” is an overlook with a surprisingly good view of the temple courtyard at the top of a nominal path, where he and Shae have maneuvered two large rocks into a bench of sorts. By the time he arrives, she’s cleared off the bench, laid down a blanket, and is seated primly on it, legs curled under her.

Shae looks over when she hears footsteps, and smiles when he comes into view. “You came!”

“Have I ever _not_ when you’ve sent me a cryptic message to meet you up here?” Praven settles onto the blanket, and if he sits a little closer than is strictly proper, neither he nor Shae mention it. He takes the wide, squat, covered container she holds out, giving it an experimental shake. “What’s this?”

Shae opens hers, and the smell of spiced chocolate fills the air. “Cocoa. I added a few things to it, though. I thought we could sit up here and watch the snowball fights.” She points through the leafless branches, where factions are already forming in the courtyard.

Praven opens his and takes a sip, eyes widening. “Does Master Yanach know you raided his secret stash?”

“Master Yanach,” Shae sniffs in disdain, “ _adores_ me, thank you very much. All I had to do was ask what would be the best liquor to mix into the cocoa.” She grins widely. “‘Oh, are you sitting out in the snow, Sunshine?’” she says in a passable imitation of the elderly Jedi. “‘Can’t have you getting cold! Hand me those mugs.’” She takes another sip, eyes closing in pleasure. “I’m pretty sure whatever he put in here is worth more than my monthly stipend.”

Praven shifts his mug to his other hand and holds out his arm. “If we’re going to be sitting on a rock in the snow, it would be wise to stick close together for warmth, you know. I almost wonder if you planned it this way, Shae.”

“An accusation without facts, Rutsair.” Shae ignores the fact that her lack of hesitation before sliding close enough for their legs to touch is plenty of support for his conjecture. "This was simply the best vantage point for my chosen activity.” 

He wraps his arm around her shoulders, pretending he doesn’t notice how she relaxes against him. “As you are the senior Jedi present, I will defer to your interpretation of the situation.”


	62. Two Days on Balmorra (Kryn/Marr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a few more secrets come to light and the galaxy works in mysterious ways, etc etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, this whole thing happened somewhat organically, since I'd decided on my first playthrough that Kryn and Lachris definitely hooked up (so before I even finished the game). It wasn't until the end of SoR that I really got on board the Kryn/Marr ship (because SWTOR doesn't exactly go out of their way to give him much of a personality), and then I remembered that the whole Kryn/Lachris thing happened, and ... well. I mean, it just feels like a very Kryn thing to have happened, LOL.

When Marr emerges from the ‘fresher after his customary three hours of training, Kryn is curled up on her end of the couch, absorbed in a small bound volume of flimsiplast. Several other similar volumes in various colors are balanced on the arm of the couch, and every once in awhile she looks up to make a few notes on a datapad resting on her thigh. He circles around behind the couch, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

“And what are you so absorbed in?”

She doesn’t look up, laying the book flat on her leg and ignoring it when the pages flip. “I’m finally putting together that paper I’ve been meaning to write on Forcewalking,” she says, fingers darting over the keyboard of the datapad. “I’m going through my notes from each of the planets where I performed the ritual and adding brief information, then comparing them.”

“Interesting.” He looks past what she’s writing to the book that’s hanging open.

_Aiela certainly knows how to reward those she feels have earned it! I need a long nap and a good three days at a spa to recuperate, I think, though what a pleasant thing to require recuperation from. I’ve spent my entire time on this lift-littered, droid-cluttered nightmare wishing I could leave, but I do lament that we only managed to steal two days together, before I’m off running another errand for Zash and she has to go back to governing this lift-littered, droid-cluttered nightmare. “Better you than me,” I told her as I braided her hair. “I’d fling lightning at the whole lot and leave the Republic to their disaster of a planet.” She’s far more prudent than I, at least in politics, if not in the bedroom. Good thing, too; this wouldn’t have been nearly as fun if she was prudent in the bedroom._

“Those are certainly unexpected notes about Force rituals,” he says when she looks up first at him, then at the open book.

“What?” Kryn skims the page. “Oh! Well, _that_ part isn’t!” She turns the book back to a different section. “This is, though. I kept my notes in my journal. Quit sneaking around trying to find salacious details about my personal affairs. I don’t even let my sisters get away with that. You have to _ask_ , like a polite person.” She chuckles. “Not that you would. Ask, that is. Not your style.” Dismissing the idea entirely, she examines the pages again, goes back to writing.

He settles onto the couch, waiting until she transfers the books to the low table in front of them and curls up against him. “You were part of the Balmorran Arms operation. You were the one who convinced Cheketta to confess, then turned him back over to the Republic.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, that was me.” 

“And you had a fling with the Balmorran governor?”

Kryn shrugs. “I suppose 'fling' would cover it. It was only a couple of days. She flirted at the spaceport, there was a spark there, we weren’t in a rush, I told Khem to entertain himself. Why?” She raises an eyebrow. “You can’t possibly complain about _this_ one. I get why you get snarky about Theron, but surely a Darth entrusted with a planet is okay.”

“Well, a bit above your station at the time,” he says dryly. 

She drops the datapad into her lap and tilts her head back. “So now I wasn’t good enough for _her_? What are you, the Imperial sexual liaison standards monitor? I wouldn’t think that would be part of your job description.”

The look he gives Kryn is thoughtful, appraising. “I wouldn’t have thought you Lachris’ type, but you do have a rather inexplicable way with people.”

Kryn sticks her tongue out at him. “It’s called charisma, thank you very much. It means I’m not a grouch who scares off anyone who might want to exchange pleasantries with me. And I didn’t know you knew her.” She reconsiders. “Though I suppose you would; would that fall under your sphere, the governors? You’d at least see their reports, right?”

He wonders if she knew, though he doubts it; in the early contentious days of their association she likely would have brought it up just to needle him and never did. “Did she ever mention who her master was?”

She shakes her head. “No. Just that he loathed politics like she did, and ….” She trails off, clapping her hand over her mouth. “No.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, the only disturbance to his otherwise placid expression. “Indeed.”

“You _weren’t_!” she exclaims, the words muffled by her fingers. “Oh!” Her shoulders shake as she’s overtaken with uncontrollable laughter, until she finally draws a deep, wheezing breath and attempts to look sober. “I guess the serious duty-driven types just can’t resist me, hmm?” She skims her notes, then returns her attention to him as something occurs to her. “This doesn’t make things weird, does it? I mean, for you. According to Rafana,” and here she slips into a passable impression of the Rattataki, “’these sorts of things bother people and if you had an ounce of sense, Kryn’la Lanai, they’d bother you, too.’”

“What, a two day fling five years gone? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m simply amused at the coincidence.” He kisses the top of her head. “And your ability to reel in the serious duty-driven types.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Reason Why](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5950966) by [ShadowSpark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowSpark/pseuds/ShadowSpark)




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